


Generation Kaiju

by FriendshipCastle



Category: Generation Kill, Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: AU-War, Anxiety Attacks, Developing Relationship, Gen, Hermann Gottlieb Has MS, Hermann's got a job to do, I don't write the frick-frack but it's male nerd bonding all up in this, It's based on the Marines okay, Jewish Character, Newt is desperate to impress in the most annoying way possible, Really offensive language, and so is my musical taste, my science is weak but my linguistics is strong, sexuality and sexual slurs in particular
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:57:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1680653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendshipCastle/pseuds/FriendshipCastle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where the Pacific Rim cast is fighting an unknown terrorist force (codenamed Kaiju) that concentrates its efforts around the Pacific Ocean.  They're trying to gather intelligence and neutralize a guerrilla enemy force in various countries with troops from equally various locations.  Dialogue is sometimes lifted directly from the transcript of <em>Generation Kill</em>.</p><p>Try to watch that miniseries without picturing Person and Colbert as Newt and Hermann pissing each other off the whole violent road trip.  I couldn't help myself.</p><p>It is based on the way Marines talk to each other, so the language is really offensive and I don't condone it but I acknowledge that it happens.  M for language alone, basically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Newt totally joins up just to get through college. Well, to get through college the third time. He’s been coasting on scholarships since he was fourteen but now that he’s nearly twenty, his shiny new smell is starting to wear off. Also, he’s scared one too many profs. They can’t seem to get over his psych evaluations. It’s not like he’s unaware of his issues, but he has better things to do than worry about keeping up with a drug regimen that really just shuts all the bright ideas and spinning thoughts down. People were against his strategies, though. Look, it was only one time that he really lost it, and while he can’t reflect on that week without wincing, at least he managed to stand in front of all those profs and defend his third dissertation without sobbing. Or puking. Though he did both later that night.  


Anyway, the point is that he wants more. More knowledge, more experiences, more whatever. He’s nineteen and still hoping for a late-in-the-game growth spurt that will put him over his dad’s five-foot-eleven frame (he’s got a long way to go but he has hopes and dreams). He can cut it with the new military that’s been made up to keep up with new threats in the world. His family can’t pay for however much college he decides he needs. He wouldn’t ask anyway—he’s a grown-ass man for the first time in his life and he’s damn well going to make it to his fourth (maybe fifth) PhD on chutzpah alone. Chutzpah and the Pan-Pacific Defense Forces K-Division dime. Plus, it’s no secret that they need people, especially smart people. Everyone knows why, though the reasons why differ depending on who you ask. Civilians know something’s up but they don’t know shit. Secretly, Newt wants to see if the rumors are true.  


Newt doesn’t want to talk about boot camp. He knew it would be bad. He watched _Full Metal Jacket_. And _Stripes_. _Stripes_ more than _Full Metal Jacket_ , if he’s honest. Boot camp was even worse than he’d imagined, though. He couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut.  


“It’s these crazy Jew genes in me, sir,” he tells his superior. “The beard just pops back out like a jack-in-the-box. Beard-in-the-chin. It’s a problem of my people.”  


“Fucking shave it, Guyzler!” his drill sergeant roars. “Don’t need you going around looking like your face is trying to pass for a pussy!”  


Newt gives up trying to correct how people say his last name. Pretty much everyone had accepted that he has always been called Newt, probably because it sounds derogatory already.  


His fellow recruits are loud and beefy and have half of Newt’s IQ to split between like twenty of them. It’s astonishingly comforting. Newt’s never had brothers before. Tormenters, yeah, but never with this sense of ‘We’re stuck together in something fucking nightmarish and we aren’t going to fuck you up too bad.’ It’s nice. No one hits him until his glasses break. They may use language that would shock every single liberal arts prof Newt’s ever encountered (Newt hadn’t even known there were many this racial slurs in the world) but no one actively tries to shatter his femur because he keeps scoring too high on the tests or because he keeps beating everyone who tries to reassemble a gun as fast as possible. They just yell at him and then slap him on the back and laugh. Everything is forgiven and forgotten in ten minutes or less. There’s no time or energy to hold grudges, and often there are too many people from too many places speaking too many languages to even understand when something’s an accidental insult. K-Division knows no boundaries because the threat they’re facing knows no boundaries.  


It’s almost no intellectual stimulation to be a part of K-Division, but physical stimulation’s off the charts. Newt can’t feel his calves from all the running they do and he’s started poking his stomach every Saturday just to check how much harder it’s gotten in a week. For once, he’s working his body rather than his mind. He’s always been loud but now he has some muscle, and some vague ability to hit people. He can grapple like a motherfucker, too.  


“Learn that at faggot school?” Dahari groans after Newt’s twisted him up and sat on the key spot that holds it all together.  


“Don’t ask and I won’t tell,” he says, smooching the air next to the guy’s ear, still running hot on adrenaline. He realizes what he said two seconds later, after he’s let the guy up, and it feels like he just punched himself in the gut from the inside but Dahari only laughs and smacks him and forgets.  


If all else fails, Newt can just say he’s only ever had girlfriends. Well, a month-long girlfriend following a very quick succession of awkward but pleasant one night stands that he won’t go into detail about. He’s easy and he’s only been legal for a year and a bit so he’s way behind on his game (no college kid wanted to pull a statutory on a sixteen-year-old nerd who beat him in a bio final), but he knows he hasn’t say no to anyone. But he also knows he doesn’t want to take any abuse from nutjobs who still believe the idea that being gay means you’ll fuck anything that moves so Newt just laughs too, sets up to take Dahari down again and resolves to be very careful what masturbatory material he chooses to bring with him in the field.  


He turns twenty and everyone in his basic training group gets him a beer. That’s like twenty beers.  


“I’m twenty, not twenty-one,” he points out as he struggles to use his room key as a bottle opener.  


“Yeah,” Peterson says, snorting, “so when you turn twenty-one you’re gonna be buying every single one of us a beer.”  


“If we make it out of war,” Lilywhite says in his thick Swedish accent, and everyone groans. Newt throws the cap off his first (still illegal) beer and it hits him in his beefy chest.  


“Weak like your punches, puny mortal,” roars Kaidanovsky, the Russian, right in Newt’s ear.  


Newt yelps. “Jesus, dude!”  


“Not your lord, you can’t have him!” Espera says. Everyone is laughing as Newt takes a sip off the weak, foamy brew.  


Newt wakes up the next morning with a mouthful of hell, naked, taped to a flagpole. It’s a cold morning. His entire team is lined up, sitting like preschoolers in front of teacher during storytime. He doesn’t have his glasses so he can’t really tell, but he thinks they might be smiling.  


“So that’s what happens to a Jew dick,” Jones says, nodding sagely. “Don’t let em near your junk with a pair of scissors, kids, or else you’ll end up withered and shrunken like this sad motherfucker.”  


“Fuck you guys,” Newt manages before he throws up on himself. He groans, feeling it hum in his head. “Someone better fucking have my glasses, that’s all I can say.” Their laughter stabs his head like knives but Kaidanovsky tucks his glasses back on before they cut him loose, and Espera chucks him a pair of boxers, and in ten minutes Newt still can’t feel his ears but everything’s forgiven and forgotten.  


As recruits start to specialize, Newt manages to get bumped into the medical training track as well as electronics. People figure he should be able to multitask and they’re damn right. He can tape up battle wounds and perform really, really basic surgery within a few weeks. He can hotwire a car, too, but he’s not supposed to tell anyone that Uncle Gunter taught him that. It means he’d be useful with the Humvees anyway. Tanks he doesn’t even want to get close to. Newt’s claustrophobia starts acting up bad just thinking about it. Metal panic attack boxes, he calls them in his head.  


They ship out. The current war (if that’s what it can be called) is still going strong. Enemy codenamed Kaiju (hence, K-Division). The public is all too aware of the threat, but they don’t really know what to make of it. The Kaiju are everywhere. Terrorist cells, maybe, or guerrilla tacticians. The problem is the war’s all over the place. Places are hit and the only thing that’s sent to the media is another clip from a B-movie where a monster destroys another monument.  


Kaiju attacks are largely confined to the major landmasses around the Pacific Ocean, though, so the governments of dozens of countries have been watching the shipping industry to see if anything’s coming from somewhere in particular. Newt’s pretty sure that no one knows what’s happening with the Kaiju or else they’d be concentrated, and when he compared with his fellow boot camp buddies, they were stationed all over the fuckin’ place. They’ve started mashing together units made up of troops trained around the world, just trying to get an edge. Maybe someone will know the terrain or the locals well enough to realize if something’s going wrong. There are some prerequisites for joining K-Division (at least one other language, gotta be able to wipe your own ass) and the training is intense.  


Newt’s assigned team is four men out of about thirty in Bravo company. Right now, they’re stationed somewhere hot and deserty and dry. Probably the Gobi. Nowhere near the Pacific Ocean. That’s where all the action is. Disappointing. Newt drowns his sorrows in post-modern literature alternated with some violent manga his cousin sent him.  


A couple guys made it over from basic training, but only Espera and Lilywhite stuck with him. Lilywhite sucks, though, so Newt doesn’t talk to him much. The guy’s a raging emo. Who knows how he made it this far with morale that low. No one’s had the patience to sit through his bitchfests and ask him.  


Newt picked up the habit of singing in boot camp because he just got so damn bored just doing repetitive tasks to break his spirit or whatever. He picked up a pretty good repertoire, too, not gonna lie. He memorized a lot of the classics. 80s rock and up, and not just American or British, but he’s damned if he can hit all the lyrics in some of those Kpop bands. He’s got Seeed down, though, and that’s what matters. Representing the mother country for his dad and Gunter.  


He’s singing the opening theme to _Neon Genesis Evangelion_ under his breath (in Japanese, hell yeah) and slamming away at the underside of the Humvee they’ve been assigned when he feels a kick on his boots. He log rolls out from underneath, elbows in, and pops up grinning. “Yeah, hi, sir!”  


This is his sergeant. The guy’s a twig. No beef, almost swimming in his fatigues except he’s tall enough for everything to hang on him like he’s a coat rack. The guy’s face looks like it could slice through a block of ice.  


Newt catches the guy’s eye and actually has to take a step back to get away from that death glare. “Woah, you are my team leader, yeah?”  


“Indeed. You are Corporal Geiszler, yes?”  


“You British, man? They let Limeys lead us? You look kinda like a frog actually. Oh shit, you French too?”  


The man’s eyes narrow and Newt takes another step back, his grin still holding on for dear life. “German. But I spent my childhood in England.”  


“Hey, that’s cool, man. I’m displaced too, yanno.”  


“I am your superior officer.”  


Newt blinks. “Yeah, I know. What does that have to do with—”  


“You will refer to me as ‘sir,’ not… ‘man.’”  


Newt’s not smiling anymore. “Yeah, okay.”  


There’s a ballooning silence where the “sir” should go until the Brit spits out, “How is our vehicle?”  


“Operational, barely. We got piss-poor supplies going on. K-Division makes do and all that but fuck me sideways if we can get by on nothing but the hopes and dreams of little babies.”  


His sergeant’s staring at him now. It’s not anger anymore. It’s something like horror. Newt thinks to look away from the guy’s face for the first time and checks his name badge.  


“Sergeant Gottlieb? Wow, shit, you are _super_ German. Not a Nazi, right?”  


Gottlieb’s eyebrows shoot up. “Do you think before you speak?”  


“Nnno? I’m a Jew, I can ask Nazi questions.”  


Gottlieb snorts. “No, you may not. My family is Jewish and I have never—”  


“Hey, then, religion buddies!” Newt sticks out a hand.  


Gottlieb actually physically recoils, like a cat splashed with water. “You do realize you are completely filthy?”  


“Well yeah,” Newt laughs. “It’s the middle of the fucking desert out here and I was just fucking around with a stuffed-up Humvee.” He wiggles his hand in the space between them. Black grease drips from his fingertips and lands in the sand.  


Gottlieb takes a deep breath and steps forward very deliberately, his chest pressing into Newt’s fingers and forcing them to curl. “Corporal Geiszler. Do not adopt a familiar tone with me. Do not refer to me in casual terms. Do not forget we are in the midst of a war and while you may have no shred of dignity to your name, I am a superior officer and will be treated as such. Get the truck functional. We have a training exercise at thirteen hundred.” He turns and marches away. Newt totally isn’t staring but the guy’s got a faint limp going on and that’s pretty fucking bizarre. He looks around at the Humvees (he’s still trying to figure out if he can adjust some of that shitty armor to get the underside without it all overheating), then goes looking for Choi.  


Choi knows everyone and everything because he damn well wants to know and he doesn’t hate Newt’s guts (yet), so he tells him everything about Sergeant “Iceman” Gottlieb. The man did tours of Afghanistan and Iraq and fucked shit up proper. Dude’s probably a Green Beret or something, no one’s positive. His dad’s somewhere high up in the ranks and pulled some strings for his kid, but there’s no doubt in Choi’s mind at least that Iceman earned it all. Dude got a limp testing out fighter jets _he designed himself_. Crashed and burned but only because something jammed. Technical error, not a design flaw. They didn’t throw him out, they just transferred him, and that probably required a whole marionette’s worth of string pulls. And then the guy proceeded to kick ass in Afghanistan and now he’s back to kick even more ass.  


“Who’re the rest of my guys?” Newt asks, closing his mouth so flies won’t get in it. “Are they just as cool?”  


Choi shrugs. Newt’s apparently got a tolerable team. Iceman, with his tours of hot and gory places and badassery, even if it never shows on his face, is the leader. Trombley is as new as Newt, which fucking sucks, especially because the guy’s got a reputation as a psycho who can only talk about killing shit. And then there’s Espera, who Newt remembers from boot camp as a man who’s competent in that quiet, efficient way that Newt will never be.  


“Could be worse,” Choi tells him. “You could be sitting pretty in Captain Kangaroo’s group.”  


“Eh?” Newt says.  


“Gung-ho little fucker commanding third platoon of Bravo. You haven’t heard of him yet? Australian. Captain Hansen. Don’t get him confused with his dad, he hates that.”  


“Who’s his dad?”  


Choi smirks. “He’s our sergeant major.”  


Newt groans. “Father and son in the same platoon? Shit!”  


“Hey, it’s one name for two guys, that should be easier. Just gotta remember the ranks. You are so bad at names, man,” Choi laughs. “It took you ages to remember mine! I remember seeing your blank little rabbit face caught in the headlights!”  


“Hey, fuck you! I remembered it eventually!” Newt says, trying to keep the grin off his face. He loves the arguments here. They’re loud and showy and so quickly forgotten that it’s barely worth the wasted breath and spit it takes to start them up.  


“And you picked your own nickname,” Choi laughs even harder. “You just don’t do that, you fuckin’ asshole!”  


“It’s an _old nickname_ ,” Newt wails.  


“No one picks their own nickname except fuckin’ assholes,” Choi asserts, standing and pulling on his helmet. “You had a training thing at thirteen hundred, yeah?”  


“Had? Oh, shit,” Newt says, popping up.  


“It’s cool,” Choi snickers. “You have two minutes.”  


Newt howls and books it towards his end of camp.  


He’s not the latest one there. Trombley drops by a second later, that weird smirk on his face. He has baby-blue eyes and skin that’s already getting pockmarked and peely from the sand and the sun and you can smell the crazy rising off of him like AXE body spray. Newt has bad associations with AXE body spray, all of them related to his brief moments surviving middle school before he made it into a college. He’s known dudes like Trombley.  


Sergeant Gottlieb pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply. “Well. At least one of you was on time. Thank you, First Lieutenant Espera.” He straightens his shoulders with what is clearly a Herculean effort (Newt has to applaud the man’s dramatic skills—even he almost feels guilty) and clears his throat. “Gents, we are going to be practicing the convoy formation with the rest of Bravo company today and we will be experiencing a missile strike to familiarize ourselves with proximity to such explosions. Corporal Geiszler, you will be driving and on coms. Espera, take the turret. Trombley, in back.”  


“You call shotgun?” Newt offers.  


It’s over 90 degrees out. They’re wearing battle fatigues that don’t match the landscape. He’s carrying enough gear that he feels like a katamari rolled out of guns and snacks and sweat. But Sergeant Gottlieb’s glare cuts through all of those boiling layers and freezes him where he stands.  


“Zip. It. Geiszler.” Gottlieb enunciates clearly.  


“Yessir,” Newt says. He ignores Trombley’s snicker next to him.  


He knew he’d end up driving. Newt’s small. Guns make his arms ache, no matter how buff and beefy he feels. Of course they stick him behind a wheel. Stick him in a metal box next to a guy who hates his guts and in front of a guy who might go off with the AXE body spray madness at any time. This isn’t going to go well.  


Gottlieb’s tense and quiet on coms, which isn’t surprising at all. He checks in periodically with the Humvees behind them (they go first) and otherwise, dead silent. Newt controls his mouth as best he can and keeps it professional until the helicopter drops on the target and shit starts flying everywhere.  


“Yeah! Get some!” Newt howls, slapping the wheel.  


“Watch your sectors,” Gottlieb says.  


“Is there any contact on my side?” Trombley whines.  


“Contact right only,” Gottlieb says.  


“Dammit,” Trombley mutters. Newt flicks a look at him in the rearview and sees him staring down at his gun. “We’ll get some later,” he tells it.  
Fuckin’ AXE nutjob.  


“Ah,” Gottlieb says suddenly. “He’s stopping.” He presses the radio clipped to his chest. “Two One Bravo, this is an interrogative from Two One Alpha.” He glances at Newt as frantic, manly yelling spews over the coms. “Follow the man.”  


“Yeah,” Newt says, twisting the wheel hard enough that Trombley starts sliding. “Got it.”  


Gottlieb breathes out loudly through his nose. Probably wants Newt to call him ‘sir.’ Ain’t gonna happen.  


They pull up in time for Gottlieb to slide out of the Humvee and join the other officers around a guy who was apparently simulating a combat casualty.  


“You die real good,” says one of his fellows, slapping him on the helmet.  


“Dammit,” says another member of his team, “I had dibs on your video camera.”  


“I had dibs on your wife,” Choi chimes in with a smirk. There’s testosterone-induced punching all around. Newt drapes himself over the wheel and tries to believe that he’s a combat-ready kind of guy. K-Division is elite. It’s cool to be in a unit with people as far away as Russia or Australia or England or Germany. That’s cool. The killing and exploding and dying thing, though, that has him a bit worried.  


Behind him, he can hear Garza talking cheerfully to Trombley about how he got to shoot from the turret.  


“I’ve never seen a .50 cal fuck up a truck before,” Garza says. “I wonder what it would look like if you hit a person.” Newt has to get out of the truck then or else he’s going to fucking scream.  


“At least you got to fire your gun,” Trombley sighs, sounding like a lovesick, mopey teenager. He runs a hand down the butt of his gun. “She didn’t even shoot off round one.”  


Newt can’t keep it in. “Trombley, if you keep talking to your weapon like it’s some hot bitch you’re mooning after, everybody’s gonna know you’re a total psycho.” He takes a few steps off and unzips for a pee. He takes a deep breath and lets it go, metaphorically and literally. He needs to start faking machismo better. He can do this. He’s gonna get paid to get at least one more masters (probably a PhD if he can), he’s gonna figure out what the fuck they’re supposed to be fighting (absolutely no one, not even Choi, knows), and he’s gonna go home.  


“Getchyer head in the game,” Newt sings to himself under his breath as he readjusts his pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Stripes_ is a very important movie. _Full Metal Jacket_ 's pretty okay, too.
> 
> Quiet reference to Radical Face's "Sleepwalking" in here.
> 
> I don't know the lyrics to _NGE_ 's theme but Newt totally would. He also references the video game _Katamari_.
> 
> Everyone should know who Seeed is. If not Seeed, at least Peter Fox.
> 
> Newt quotes _High School Musical_ at the end there.


	2. Chapter 2

Newt’s walking back to the Humvees, listening to Choi talk about his girlfriend back home, Alison. Newt’s a nice guy and he likes Choi, so he’ll listen. Plus, Choi really likes talking about how they have sex, and Newt’s taking some serious notes for the future. He figures it’s a good idea to collect different experiments to test out. Hypotheses all end in orgasm and that’s damn fine with him.

Rudy Reyes races by them, loaded down with rocks and wearing a gas mask.

“I love you, Fruity Rudy!” Newt yells before he can think about it.

“Hoo-rah!” roars another K-Division guy.

“Get some!”

“Slay that dragon!”

“Now that is a fine specimen of man,” Choi says.

“Indeed,” Newt says. Rudy’s a fucking Adonis with a quiet little smile and a wife in San Francisco. He’s out there working out when everyone else is lounging around trying to jack off in peace. Newt admires that dedication, and he admires what that dedication is doing to Reyes’ physique. There are small, precious, carefully-hoarded perks to being in K-Division.

“Where’d you even get those hoses for your company, Newt?” Choi says, swatting at the bits of plastic draped over Newt’s shoulder.

“Sucked an officer’s dick,” Newt lies with a smirk. 

“Man, that’s exploitative shit,” Choi teases. “You’ve been exploited, dude.”

“Working the system like a back-alley hooker,” Newt says. “So to speak.”

“You’re so damn clever,” Choi says.

“Hey,” Newt says, slowing before they reach the Humvee. “I hear you got the caffeine hook-up.”

Choi groans. “Who fuckin’ talked?”

“I have my sources, clearly,” Newt says, waggling the hoses. “C’mon, man, I’m dying for coffee.”

Choi’s mouth twists from side to side but he’s going to give in. “Fine,” he says at last. “Come by after this shit’s done. I’ll give you the French press and beans.”

“I love you and I owe you and I’d blow you,” Newt says, trotting off toward his Humvee. Gottlieb’s elbow-deep in the engines with a glower that would probably put a damper on a hundred-watt bulb. He turns that glower on Newt but it vanishes almost immediately.

“Ah, excellent,” he says, speaking directly to the tubes Newt’s handing him. “Perfect.”

“You’re _welcome_ , Sergeant,” Newt says.

“You!” someone yells. Gottlieb’s looking over Newt’s shoulder so Newt turns. A huge blonde man is bearing down on them.

“You some kind of hippie cunt?” the man roars at Newt. “Why’s your shirt out of regulations?” 

The guy’s an Australian. Newt’s brain flings up a memory of Choi talking about the Hansens and they’re father and son and Australian and oh shit which one is this?

“Sergeant Major Hansen,” Gottlieb says from behind him, “is there a problem? My corporal has been working on our Humvee all morning.”

Hansen snorts. “I couldn’t give a shit if your corporal has a sucking chest wound! He better not be wandering about with his arse hanging out!”

“Yes, Sergeant Major,” Gottlieb says calmly. “Corporal Geiszler, be advised that you are to conduct yourself in compliance with the grooming standard of K-Division.”

Newt starts cramming his shirt into his fatigues, trying to keep from pouting. Sergeant Major Hansen turns and goes after their medic for his moustache being out of line and Newt immediately starts untucking his shirt.

“No,” Gottlieb says. Newt turns to look at him but Gottlieb’s folding himself into the engine again, muffled and determined. “Don’t push our luck. Dismissed. I’ll finish this myself.”

“I can do it, man,” Newt offers.

“Get out of here, Geiszler,” Gottlieb sighs. He pops his head out and pulls on a pair of huge spectacles that barely cling to the tip of his nose, then dives back in. “I’ll be fine.”

This just means Newt gets coffee sooner anyway, so he sarcastically salutes Gottlieb’s hunched frame and books it to Choi’s.

He’s making coffee for himself when it all goes to shit. They’re listening to BBC because Al Jazeera makes most Americans antsy (it’s racism, pure and simple, all based around the sound of the network's name, but Newt’s never comfortable enough to go against the grain if it means he’ll be getting special attention). The voice is droning on and Newt’s trying not to imagine that it’s Gottlieb reading all this news at him. Not all Brits are his superior officer. He’s gotta hold on to that.

“Another attack from an unknown terrorist group,” the guy on the radio says, “has left over a hundred casualties in Manila.”

“Fuck,” someone mutters,

“The fuck are we even fighting?” someone else says. “A ghost? Even these BBC motherfucks don’t know what’s up. BBC is _God_ , man. God don’t even know what we’re doing against the Kaiju.”

“This so jacked up,” grumbles one of their Italian troops.

“Oi!” calls Corporal O’Rowe from the front of the tent. “One ‘a you fookers gotta take this reporter around. He’s from Rolling Stone so be gentle with him, lads.”

There’s a mocking grumble that runs around the tent. Newt keeps on watching his coffee, waiting for it to boil.

“Fuck if they don’t give us a dope-smoking, peace-freak writer.”

“Faggot.”

“You gonna write how we should be sitting back home with our thumbs up our asses?”

“You have a lot of questions about how this fucking war makes us fucking feel?”

“Could be worse,” the reporter offers. “I used to write for Hustler.”

Even Newt has to look up at that one. He quick-steps over and joins the orbit around the man. “What’d you write, man?”

The reporter shrugs, flashing an embarrassed smile. He’s blonde and good-looking and wearing a sweater of all things, even in this desert weather. “Hot letters, sex toy reviews.”

There’s a collective laugh. 

“Atta boy!” someone shouts.

“Get some!” someone else says, and laughter bubbles up again.

“Welcome aboard,” Espera says, waving him towards his little corner of the tent.

“They didn’t like me much, though,” the reporter tries to explain. No one else is listening anymore, though, apart from Newt. It's storytime about a boy's first encounter with Hustler.

“Why not?” Newt asks.

The reporter looks even more embarrassed. “Said I was too respectful of the woman’s perspective.”

“You might wanna keep the whole ‘respecting women’ thing on the dee el,” Newt whispers, glancing at his coffee. “This is manly-man’s land.”

“It’s just a louder version of Hustler,” the reporter sighs. He holds out a hand. “I’m Becket.”

“Newt,” Newt says, shaking his hand. “Good luck, man. I got shit to do, so I’m gonna go…” Newt settles back down to watch his coffee and, of course, that’s when his hot plate explodes.

*

“Let me ensure that I understand you,” Gottlieb says, tucking his glasses into a pocket on his jacket and staring down at Newt. “My RTO has just sustained moderate burns in his tent from an exploding portable stove while he made himself coffee in a remarkably durable French press. Which is not currently here.” 

Newt presses the wet towel to the right side of his face and tries not to cry. It fuckin’ hurts, man. He knew he’d get injured in war but not like this!

“Without said RTO,” Gottlieb continues, “I will be going to war against a very obscure enemy, unable to quickly and effectively establish radio communications within our unit, with other elements of our battalion, or with close air support. Have I accurately summed up the situation?”

Newt’s leaking out of his eyes. It’s not the same as crying. _Shit_ this stings. Garza’s patting his back. Trombley’s running Choi’s French press back to him, after Garza screamed at him about it for a bit. Newt loves Garza a little bit right now. Maybe if he asks nice, Garza will save him from Choi’s wrath.

Garza looks up at the Sergeant now and pulls a half-shrug. “That, and they’re probably gonna write us all up for operating a stove in the tent against regulations.”

“Over goddamned coffee,” Gottlieb says. “Marvelous. Clean Geiszler up at least. I’ll cover for you lot.”

“Thank you, sir,” Newt manages around the searing pain.

“You shouldn’t thank me now,” Gottlieb says to him. “You’re coming for supply pick up tomorrow. Apparently I can’t leave you to your own devices for too long.”

“Don’t need a fuckin’ babysitter,” Newt mutters.

“Apparently,” Gottlieb snaps, “you do. Oh eight hundred. Bring that reporter with you. Can’t leave him unattended either.”

*

Newt took something for the pain and oh man, it’s good shit. Choi is his new best friend. He doesn’t know how he lucked out so hard. 

Gottlieb takes one look at him and says, “I’ll be driving.”

“Sure thing, broseki,” Newt sighs, drifting to the passenger’s side of the Humvee.

“How do I fit in here?” the reporter asks.

Newt and Gottlieb both stare at him, then at each other. “You get in,” Gottlieb says finally.

“It… It looks really crowded,” the guy says, looking between the two of them.

“You get in,” Newt says. “Don’t be a pussy.”

“Where are we going, anyway?” the reporter asks as he stuffs himself in the back seat. He’s huskier than Newt or Gottlieb, unfortunately, but a lot of it’s probably pudge and sweater. At least, Newt hopes it’s pudge and sweater. If a fucking reporter has more muscle on him than Newt heads will roll.

“We will be visiting the PX,” Gottlieb says as they take off into the open desert.

“Sorry?”

“Post. Package services. You recall when we requested that you order some items for us?”

“Uh, yeah,” the reporter says. “Didn’t you guys just get mail, though? Maybe it’s not in yet. All I saw were letters for you…”

“Yeah,” Newt laughs, “some dumbass letters from school kids who don’t know shit about what we’re fighting over here. All about peace and surrender and shit. They don’t even know, man, about our enemy. No one except us knows.”

“Shut up, Geiszler,” Gottlieb says. “You know nothing more than what civilians know.”

“I could know stuff,” Newt says. Even through his morphine-haze he realizes how whiney he sounds. He glares out the window.

“Yes, Becket, we did just get mail,” Gottlieb growls, and conversation ends until they pull up at a United States Army camp twenty minutes later.

“Wait,” the reporter says as they’re standing in line in front of the shipping crate where an Army man is unloading supplies, “why is the PX at an Army camp?”

“K-Division doesn’t need no stinkin’ PX! We’re Martha fucking Stewart out here!” Newt sings. "Do it yourself, kids, with pipe cleaners and plenty of glitter!"

“Shut up,” Gottlieb tells him.

“Then why did we go to the PX?” the reporter asks.

The Army soldier doling out supplies waves a hand at them. “You’re up. Name?”

“Gottlieb. From K-Division.”

The soldier grins at them, shakes his head, then starts pulling plastic bags that look like they could come from the Kmart up the street from Newt’s dad’s place. “Triple-A batteries. Skoal and Copenhagen, you lucky fuckers. Baby wipes. 5-hour energy, Red Bull, Ripped Fuel, and adult diapers. Why do you need all this shit, boys? Jesus.”

“Yeah,” the reporter says, picking up a can of Skoal and staring at it in blue-eyed horror. “Why did you need all this from me?”

Newt snags the bags holding all the energy drinks and and diapers. “In the infinite wisdom of whatever fucknut runs the K-Division post-exchange stores, they won’t sell any actual military personnel this shit in quantity. For you, though, civilian, you could get us anything we wanted. And I do mean anything.”

“Damn,” the reporter says. “Why won’t they sell to military?”

“Keeps us pissed,” Newt says. He’s practically skipping on their way back to the car. “If K-Division could get everything we wanted when we needed it, we’d be happy campers. We wouldn’t be scared shitless and ready to kill any potential Kaiju we see. We’re like some kind of bulldog for Pan-Pacific. They deprive us, terrify us, and then they’ll let us out to attack something.

“Oh,” the reporter says. “Uh, why so many batteries?”

“For night vision,” Newt tells him. “Battalion didn’t bring enough batteries for our goggles. Hell, they didn’t bring enough of anything. We barely have maps. We have no fucking clue where we’ll be a week from now. We could be headed to the Hawaiian Islands for all we fucking know. We don’t even know where we are now.”

“When nations go to war,” Gottlieb snaps, limping a bit more than usual under the weight of the bags he’s carrying, “they bring everything they’ve bloody well got. K-Division makes do.”

“You know,” Newt says, “I’ve spent more of my own precious time and money and personal dignity than I’d care to remember just fixing up this fucking Humvee. It’s my goddamn baby now. _Meine kleine Jäger_.” He pops open Gottlieb’s door for him and snags some of his bags to dump in the seat next to the reporter.

“Did you just call it your little hunter?” Gottlieb says, glaring at him.

“Okay, fine,” Newt says, “ _unsere kleinen Jäger_. Happy?”

“I am never happy, Geiszler,” Gottlieb says. "It's part of why I am in charge and you are not." He drags himself into the driver’s seat and for the life of him Newt can’t tell which leg his bad side. Newt slams the back door, slams Gottlieb’s door before the man can reach for the handle, and trots around to his side of the Humvee. He slams that door behind him, too. He's in a slamming mood suddenly.

“I gotta ask,” the reporter says. “What’re the diapers for?”

Newt tucks himself into a ball on the seat, feeling the dull heat of his facial burns start up again. He’s going to need more morphine before the day’s out. He hates being drug dependent. At least it’s only for a little while.

“Hello?” the reporter says.

“Pray you never find out,” Newt says.

They come back to find that there’s a set time for them all to ship out. They have their first mission, and their first long-distance drive through territory that is a potential threat zone. Newt feels like he needs way more morphine before he'll ready to deal with this news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Al Jazeera is a broadcasting network based in Qatar that is now available worldwide and in several languages. It's known for circumventing censorship and contributing to the free exchange of information in the Arab world, and it's been praised as one of the five best news web sites (on par with BBC News, National Geographic and The Smoking Gun). It started out focused on Middle Eastern news but expanded to America and I feel like it would go even more global if there was a catastrophe like what's happening with Kaiju at this point in the story. I don't know much about it, unfortunately, so apologies if I'm way off. It just shocks me that I'd never even heard of it until college so I wanted to include it as a possible information source. Newt would totally know it exists.
> 
> Mark O'Rowe is a bomb playwright and therefore I mention him once in here. Maybe he'll show up again. Maybe other authors will, too.
> 
> Changed the dog breed from the script's 'pit bull' to 'bull dog' because Max and threw in stuff about Jägers because I am a huge dork for details. Don't know any German, but hopefully ' _unsere kleinen Jäger_ ' means 'our little Jäger.' Thanks Google translate.
> 
> Most of the dialogue and events are taken from the first episode of _Generation Kill_ directly. It'll start moving away from the miniseries pretty soon.


	3. Chapter 3

Espera likes taking the gun up top because he’s away from Newt’s chatter. He’s said as much. Trombley likes to sit in back and bitch about not killing things every ten minutes. Newt drives. This leaves Gottlieb with the unfortunate place at Newt’s side. They have their routine all of a sudden and routine is God in K-Division. So they drive. When their convoy starts heading away from base camp and into the desert’s depths that will eventually lead them along the Pacific Ocean, Newt is proud that he took a truly enormous stash of energy drinks with him because he knew. This is more important than the time he pulled all-nighters for three days and then had to defend his dissertation for his third master’s degree. This is four guys depending on him. And it’s no scheduled potty breaks and no rest.

Newt begins the mission already planning his song lineup in his head. _Ain’t No Rest For the Wicked_ isn’t scheduled to come up until after they have been awake for 30+ hours, though, so he starts out with the marvelous power ballad to end all power ballads.

“It’s the eye of the tiger, it’s the thrill of the fight,” Newt belts out, pounding the steering wheel and adjusting the gold-rimmed prescription sunglasses that are seriously helping him out at the moment. The glare off the sand is atrocious. 

“Geiszler, shut up,” Gottlieb says, his cheek pressed against the scope of his gun. The guy doesn’t have sunglasses. He’s squinting away, stiff and determined. Newt can tell he’s stiff because every time they turn or lurch, the guy wavers like crazy.

“Relax, man,” Newt offers. “You’re rattling around in here! Move with the car, don’t try to stop it from shifting you.”

“Kindly refrain from telling me how to _sit in a goddamn car_ ,” Gottlieb positively hisses. Newt didn’t believe it was possible but the guy gets even stiffer.

“Such language,” Newt says instead. “You’ll sully the virgin ears of our friendly neighborhood reporter. Oh reporter, please won’t you be my neighbor?”

It seems they’ve been stuck with the reporter, Becket. Newt’s not sure who assigned them this guy but he assumes that Gottlieb knows and had already drafted several strongly-worded complaints and is maybe planning a raid on HQ any day now. Now he is shooting death beams from his eyes at that scrubbly, blonde, good-looking reporter. Newt would be right behind Gottleib if he decided to raid HQ over this. Reporters suck, even if this one seems nice. 

“Uh, you liked that show too?” the reporter asks.

“What show?” Trombley grumbles.

“Jesus Christ pissing off the Pharisees, Trombley, how do you not know _Mister Rogers_? The fuck’s wrong with you?” Newt squeals. “Did your parents hate you?”

“No,” Trombley says. “What’s the first thing you said? Fair seas?”

“Trombley, you are a moron.”

“Oh really, Geiszler,” Gottleib snaps. “I do not see how these types of, I would not dare to call them jokes but you seem to find them amusing, how these _jokes_ amuse people! Especially if the average member of the populace lacks a basic understanding of the Bible!”

“Do you read the Bible, Iceman?” Newt asks, sincere interest dripping from his voice.

“I bloody well did.”

“Dull, huh?”

Gottlieb is silent. Newt glances over to check that he’s still breathing. Did Newt just get the last word? Did Gottlieb think something was boring just like Newt thought it was boring? Is he ashamed of how shitty a person Newt is?

“Uh, Corporal?” the reporter guy pipes up from the back.

“Yeah, liberal media scum?” Newt replies because he stands in solidarity with Gottlieb and is totally sucking up to the guy. He’s only using his peripherals for surveillance, but he thinks he sees something like an approving head motion from the Iceman. It could have just been yet another pothole, though.

“I was wondering how to spell your last name,” the liberal media scum (a.k.a Becket) says. 

“It’s confusing like Nietzsche,” Newt assures him. “If we ever pull over ever again, I’ll spell it in the sand for you and let the wind carry it away. It will be sung from the highest sand dunes and whispered to—”

“Shut up, Geiszler.”

“Yeah, Iceman, sure,” Newt sighs. He leans toward the reporter without taking his eyes off the road and adds, “It’s G-E-I-S-Z-L-E-R. And Newt was his name-o, like I told you back at base camp. Spelled like the amphibian.”

“And where are you from, uh, Newt?” asks the liberal media scum.

“Germany,” Newt says. “But also a trailer park in Indiana.”

Gottlieb huffs slightly. 

“Oh, do you have something to say, Iceman?” Newt says. He decides to take offense to see if he can drag that stiff British scarecrow into an argument and kill another half hour of driving time. 

“Not at all,” Gottlieb says.

“You wanna talk shit about my Whiskey Tango upbringing?” Newt says. He’s not sure if he should sound pissed or not. He goes for affronted to the max.

“I do not, Geiszler. Watch the road.”

“I can watch the road and combat your shit-talk any day, sir,” Newt says, going for broke. “Why don’t you say something about me and my trailer park? I fuckin’ dare you. They have trailer parks in Limeyland? They have Walmarts? They have Dunkin’ Donuts?”

Gottlieb shakes his head faintly. “I do not have the faintest idea why you wish to engage in an argument with me. Watch the road and be silent.”

Newt sighs. “Reporter, my man, you have more questions for me? Iceman’s not engaging.”

“Uh, yeah, what’s Whiskey Tango?”

“White trash.”

“Is that… Where did that come from?”

“NATO phonetic alphabet. Whiskey Tango. Double-you tee. White trash.”

“But you’re originally from Germany?”

“Dual citizenship, baby. I was only like six when we moved but it was real pretty, all foresty and rainy and shit. Good place. I wanna go back. I’m still fluent. In that and Japanese, bitch! And Kaidanovsky taught me some Russian so he could read me the poems he wrote to his wife. She was in the ladies basic training. Ooo, and I think I picked up French so I could impress this girl. And Spanish from this guy I knew.” And this is why he shouldn’t be allowed to talk to reporters while driving. It’s only going to get worse as the hours tick on, too, he knows that. His brain and mouth are wired too tightly to each other. There’s no space for thoughts to breathe. He’s dumb and American and gung-ho for this war. That is the role he’s playing right now. No way would a dumb American know German, Japanese, Russian, French, _and_ Spanish. 

He’s got to get through this war for college and, increasingly, to understand what the fuck is up with this enemy they’re supposed to be facing. He doesn’t like mysteries. Newt wants to know answers. It’s why he’s a permanent student, after all. Kaiju are a mystery he’s damn well going to solve, if he doesn’t end up getting into MIT on the military dime soon.

“You’re fluent in German?” liberal media scum asks.

“Yeah but it ain’t much use if I’m not in Germany now, is it?” Newt says quickly. He thinks he sees Gottlieb twitch slightly but it might have been another pothole. Newt concentrates on steering. It’s hard to read the body language of a guy in his periphery if he keeps bouncing said guy around. 

Newt’s still thinking of a decent response if the reporter asks about how good he is at languages (and any kind of memorization, really) when there’s a sudden cough from Espera.

“Possible hostiles,” Espera says. His voice is muffled but it carries in the cab of their little Humvee.

“Where?” Gottlieb asks.

“Two o’clock.”

Gottlieb is quiet for a moment, then moves into a slightly different position. “Gottem.” 

Newt keeps his speed even and his breath calm and his hands on two and ten. He’s sweating. It’s not just the heat. There’s a dull whine from the earpiece in Gottlieb’s ear as someone directs him to do something. 

“We are not to engage,” Gottlieb says after a moment, and he shifts into what is probably a relaxed position for him. “Reporter, do not piss yourself in this Humvee if we face a potential threat; the odds that we will engage are slim as we’re at the front of the line and other troops have our backs. Trombley, do not whine so loudly about failing to murder anyone. Geiszler, keep driving this well, it’s a welcome change. Espera, good work, keep watching our backs. Oh, and Geiszler, shut the fuck up.”

“Yessir,” Newt says, his heart singing because he got Gottlieb to tell him two things to do instead of just one like everyone else, and he got the man to swear. Newt’s already special. He’s already leaving an impression. His mother would be so proud that her only son is so good at pissing people off.

*

Gottlieb is one pretty dude. Newt shrugs and shakes it off because no way is he doing anything about that but he can’t help but _notice_. All cheekboney and pissy-looking with a haircut so bad he must have done it himself. And he can just sit there while the scenery passes by, completely silent but completely alert, as hours tick past. The guy can zero in like nobody’s business.

Newt can’t shut up around him. Literally can’t shut up. 

“He was a skater boy, she said see you later boy,” Newt sings to himself. “Man, the girl in the song is such a bitch. And it doesn’t make sense either cuz all I guys I knew who were getting mad ass when they were in high school were skaters.” Newt likes to edit his history so he sounds like less of a genius. It also keeps him on his toes. He needs some brain stimulation and keeping lies straight is the only way he knows how to keep those little gray cells firing.

“He wasn’t good enough for her,” Newt continues.

Sergeant Gottlieb’s voice is pained. “Geiszler.” 

“Newt!”

Gottlieb actually looks over at him for that. “What?”

“It’s Newt.”

“Didn’t you pick your own nickname?” Trombley says from the back. His voice is nasal and whiney in all the wrong ways and Newt internally winces at the sound of it.

“It’s just what people call me, man,” he says.

“I am not referring to you as an amphibian,” Gottlieb says, turning back to his gun. “Shut up.”

“She had a pretty face but her head was off in space,” Newt continues.

“I am serious about you shutting up,” Gottlieb says.

“Oh really? I couldn’t tell if you meant I should shut about you calling me Newt or if I should just shut up in general.”

“Shut up. Completely.”

Newt almost bites through his lip in ten minutes of enforced silence. He finally breaks. “She needed to come back down to earth!” he finishes, his voice cracking on the last word as he drags it up and down the musical scale.

Gottlieb fucking loses it a bit. “Will you shut your trap, Geiszler! Consider the fact that we are in enemy territory and we do not need to hear some popular music at the moment! So shut it! And you!” He glares behind his seat at Becket “If I catch you writing his, his _drivel_ down, I’ll have Geiszler drive us into a firefight and make you shit yourself!” 

Newt needs to watch what he says around people who write things down for a living. He doesn’t, of course, but he should. He really, really should.

“Hey Sergeant, you ever try Tai Chi or Shiatzu or whatever the fuck white people think Asians do to calm down?” Newt asks, steering them around a pot hole. “You are one tightly wound dude.”

“Refrain from personal comments,” Gottlieb growls, settling behind the scope of his gun and glaring out into the featureless desert.

“I’m not saying Asians have it right, mind you,” Newt continues. “Or, like, white people’s idea of what Asians do in their spare time. But some people probably find it soothing. It’d chill you the fuck out and that’s pretty good. You know they call you Iceman?”

“Yes.” It sounds like Gottlieb’s speaking through gritted teeth.

“I’m not seeing a ton of cool happening with you, man.”

“You are aggravating and self-aggrandizing, Geiszler. You are enough to infuriate anyone. And I’m not sure who told you of my moniker, though I can guess that it was either Choi or Hansen, but I will ask you to consider the fact that you have no idea what Iceman refers to. I will tell you that it did not refer to the climate at the time I received such a title. Nor does it refer to my mental state at this moment.”

Newt can’t stop smiling. He adjusts his prescription sunglasses to keep the reporter from seeing his face right now because his grin is wide and stupid. This guy’s vocabulary is as pretty as his face, all delicate and grumpy. It’s beautiful. And Newt’s trapped in a car with this guy. And they’re being watched by a reporter from _Rolling Stone_ and fucking Trombley, who Newt has decided to hate in a low-level way. He’s going to hate Gottlieb with all he’s got, though. Gonna hate him hard and loudly and as often as he can. And maybe, if Newt’s very, very lucky, he’s going to come out of this war with a kickass best friend.

“Very true, sir,” Newt acknowledges when he’s sure his grin has died down enough that it won’t be too noticeable in his voice. “But, sir, I have a proposal for you.”

“You are calling me ‘sir’ and it worries me, Geiszler. I’d welcome the change if I thought it was sincere.”

Newt ignores him. “I was thinking, I could just start listing reasons why they’d call you Iceman and you could tell me if I get it right.”

He thinks he hears Gottlieb groan out “Why” but he can’t be sure because he’s already launching into “You’re as cold as ice, you’re willing to sacrifice our love” and of all people the reporter Becket is joining in, and then Espera’s surprisingly lovely baritone drops in from above and Trombley starts humming along with the chorus.

*

New mission. They haven’t engaged a single fucking person and they’re going to be moved and deployed somewhere new. The only thing Newt’s been told is not to bring anything that’ll mold. That’s some of his porn he’ll have to leave behind, probably. The cheaper shit. Dammit. 

Not like he’s had an opportunity or inclination to use it recently, though. He’s busy. Driving. Trying to think through a fog of exhaustion and energy drinks. Trying to piece together what people know about Kaiju from rumors. Espera’s the only one talking, though. Well, Trombley talks but all he talks is bullshit, so Newt’s learning to tune him out.

“Out of the car,” Gottlieb growls once they hit their destination. No fucking hostiles at all. Two days without sleep, pissing in 30 seconds or less, jumping at a shine in the sand that turned out to be a television satellite dish hooked up for a whole little village. Maybe they’re not in the Gobi after all. Maybe they’re in hell. Maybe Newt’s hallucinating.

“Out of the car,” Gottlieb snaps in his ear, and Newt drags himself out, whining the whole way. 

He pulls his backpack of energy drinks with him, cuddling it to his chest. “My babies. You will suffer.”

“Get some rest on the ride,” Gottlieb calls from inside the car. Espera and Trombley are loading their gear onto the helicopter already. Newt goes to join them but stops when he realizes the reporter’s not coming. Neither is Gottlieb.

Newt looks back. The Iceman’s holding on to the Humvee for support, glaring at his leg like he wants to amputate it with his mind. The reporter’s bending over him, talking quietly. Gottlieb turns and Newt’s suddenly really, really glad he can’t see the guy’s face because reporter-man Becket actually takes a couple steps back, raising his hands and giving a really sweet-looking half-smile that makes him look like a kicked puppy. He shoulders his own gear and heads for the helicopter.

“Hey,” Newt says as the reporter passes him. “That guy all right?”

“Don’t ask him that,” reporter-man says. “He didn’t say anything but, uh, it’s pretty clear he doesn’t want sympathy.”

Newt backs his way toward the helicopter, unable to wipe the concerned frown off his face. The guy’s staring into space, still white-knuckling the Humvee. He turns and takes a step and vanishes behind the car for a sec. It takes him a little too long to make it all the way around the car, but he’s walking pretty normally by the time he’s out in the open. His limp looks the same as it did before the drive. Gottlieb’s already glaring so Newt just turns and books it towards the helicopter, feeling his cans of energy drinks slap and gurgle against his back. 

They’re strapped in to the seats and Newt tries not to jitter. Because he’s the last guy in, he’s stuck with the honor of sitting next to Iceman, who drags himself into the helicopter with a stony face and sits down without hesitation or complaint. That’s the mark of someone too badass to be real, right there. Newt maybe wants to be his buddy even more now.

The sense of badass stoicism is cut down a bit when he puts on the ridiculous earmuff communicator things that they’re all wearing to muffle the horrible _thwopthwopthwop_ of this helicopter.

“Coms off in a moment,” Gottlieb tells them all. “I want you unconscious for as much of this flight as possible. I will take first communications watch. All the rest of you, out like lights. We need you combat-ready and easily adjusting to a new location. I will brief you on what our mission will be when we arrive. Suffice it to say that we will have a more interesting time of it than where we just were. Our intel is better and we may have spotted a weakness in Kaiju ranks. Rest easy, men. We made it this far. Over and out.” The man nods and settles back. 

Everyone switches off coms, shuts his eyes, and proceeds to fall asleep semi-instantly. Newt doesn’t. Well, technically, he can’t. He’s still tweaking on Ripped Fuel. He uses his peripherals again (even though it’s out of the scope of his glasses) and watches Gottlieb carefully straighten his right leg, then his left. There is a hesitation in his movements, as if he’s scared to push his joints too far. 

Newt pretends to scratch his ear and thumbs on the com. “Hey, man, you okay?”

He’s close enough that he can feel Gottlieb jump. “Geiszler?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m still amped from all that energy shit I take to keep driving. You all right?”

“Fuck. Off.”

Newt has to turn and stare at him for that one. “Wow, dude, language.”

Gottlieb opens his mouth but doesn’t get the chance to respond because with an extra-loud roar and lurch, they’re airborne.

“Ahhh shit,” Newt says. At least this metal panic-attack box is open on the sides. Sand blew in and blew out again and now the wind is drying all the sweat in his combat gear. He tries to believe he’s going to be safe in here.

“Geiszler, are you all right,” Gottlieb says, but it’s not a question. It’s more a sarcastic quip meant to induce shame.

“I get panic attacks in small, cramped spaces I can’t get out of easily, sir,” Newt tells him.

“Ah.” Gottlieb seems thrown by this admission. Frankly, Newt just wants to sit down with this guy and confess all his dirty secrets, just to see him squirm. This guy wouldn’t kick the shit out of him for being kinda gay, or being a huge nerd, or speaking way too many languages, or having too many degrees, or taking too much energy pills and not enough brain-chemistry-calming pills. This guy’s a kindred spirit. He’s got shit he’s hiding, too. And not sensitivity shit. Becket’s in charge of sensitivity for their little group, that’s clear. Trombley’s in charge of bloodthirsty madness. Espera’s in charge of being quiet and efficient and exasperated with everyone else. That leaves Newt and Gottlieb as the ultimate nerd duo, if Newt has his way. This guy’s got secrets. 

Maybe he’s hiding a Star Trek addiction.

“Live long and prosper,” Newt says.

“I beg your pardon?”

Maybe not. “Just trying to lighten the mood,” Newt says. “It’s my personal mantra, okay? My life motto. Live long and prosper. And I do that by not getting into metal things I can’t get out of. I don’t want to flip shit in the middle of a war, man. Especially one this dangerous, where we don’t even know what we’re fighting.”

“Ecological terrorists.”

Newt whips his head around so fast he maybe just gave himself whiplash. “What?”

Gottlieb glares at him, or maybe he never stopped glaring. “They’re ecological terrorists. They leave a chemical in their wake called Kaiju Blue.”

“Chemical?” Newt whispers, though the coms probably won’t pick it up. He looks around but everyone’s still asleep and their pilot must be on a different frequency or else Gottlieb wouldn’t be indulging his curiosity like this.

“It’s blue,” Gottlieb says.

“Yeah, dude, got that part.”

Gottlieb’s glare actually melts away at that bit of sass. The guy looks tired. It’s sudden. Newt feels his own face twist into utter guilt. “Sorry.”

Gottlieb shakes his head and resumes glaring. “And you should be apologetic. Insubordination is your vice, Geiszler. How on earth you made it this far without getting a file the size of your substantial head—”

“What about the Kaiju Blue?” Newt interrupts. He’s got priorities, and those priorities boil down to SCIENCE.

“It causes mass damage when it’s released into the oceans,” Gottlieb says. “I constructed an algorithm that calculates Kaiju Blue origins from the spread of the spill based on the ocean currents and weather patterns, but we haven’t been able to run the numbers fast enough until recently.”

“You made an algorithm?” Newt says. Revelations are coming hard and fast and Newt really, really wants to befriend this guy. If he can do sexy algorithms, maybe he wants to do more than befriend him.

“Yes,” Gottlieb snaps. “I did. And now we have better coordinates than ever before, and K-Division Bravo company is going to see if we can catch the bastards before the vanish once more.”

“Tally ho!” Newt howls happily.

“Shut up,” Gottlieb says. “I don’t say that. No one says that.”

“It’s a fox hunt thing, dude.”

“It is _not_. Now kindly get some rest. We will need to do much more driving tomorrow. And turn off your coms.”

“Yessir,” Newt says sarcastically, flicking the switch before the guy can try and get one last word in. He’s finally starting to drift off when he realizes that he never got an answer to his original question: was the Iceman all right?

Newt decides the guy’s probably gonna be okay and slips off into shallow, uneasy dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newt sings "Sk8er Boi" by Avril Lavigne, part of the opening song to the children's TV show _Mister Rogers' Neighborhood_ , and "Cold As Ice" by Foreigner. I was originally gonna have Newt sing a bunch of songs about ice but the only other one I have at the moment is "Ice, Ice Baby" by Vanilla Ice and there's no way I'm putting that in there because he ripped off "Under Pressure." Any ice song suggestions would be helpful. "Let It Go" may make an appearance if I'm loopy enough.
> 
> Newt mentions the Pharisees, which was the religious sect that was particularly mad at the fact that Jesus was breaking all the rules of Judaism. He also mentions the NATO phonetic alphabet, which is used to spell things letter by letter without confusing the sounds of letters over the telephone (the letters 'f' and 's' often sound similar, for example). It was designed to be understood through language barriers and static but then evolved apparently into a weird code. I just wanted to include some of it in here because it showed up in _Generation Kill_ and I thought it was interesting.
> 
> Newt quotes probably the most recognizable line from Star Trek ever, apart from "I'm a doctor, not a [insert profession here]" and "Space, the final frontier."


	4. Chapter 4

They landed in a jungle just as the sun was rising. It would have been a spectacular sight, probably. The green trees and the hills and all that shit. It’s raining, though. Hey, the trees have to stay green somehow.

It’s cold. Like, not awful, but pretty bad. Bad enough that Newt decides they probably weren’t in Hawaii or Vietnam. It’s not humid. Getting to be the middle of fall, if Newt remembers right. They must be above the equator then. Maybe they’re in America? It’s pine trees as far as the eye can see. Maybe it’s Japan, though. No way they crossed the Pacific in a helicopter. No way Newt got more than five hours of sleep, either. Gotta be Japan.

They eat. That’s nice. Well, it’s prepackaged and crumbling pound cake, but they eat it standing in a circle (no one wants to sit anymore) with people from Bravo that they like, except Trombley’s unfortunately there. Choi gives Newt the thumbs-up when he sees him. Newt has a cool friend and that little reminder makes his heart sing.

What he doesn’t have is a Gottlieb friend. The guy doesn’t talk, stands far away from Newt when they’re eating, and then strides off by himself, the limp way more noticeable now, and vanishes into the trees.

“Isn’t that against protocol or something?” Newt says. “A sergeant wandering off alone? Like, it’s dangerous, right?”

Choi gives him a look. “Dudes need privacy, Newt.”

Newt rubs his face. “Right. Sorry.”

“Got a crush?” Choi teases.

“Not fuckin likely,” Newt lies with a grin. “How was your scenic drive through the hot and shitty countryside?”

“Beautiful. I took photographs of the local wildlife the whole way.” Choi spits his tobacco on the ground. “I honestly have no fucking idea what the point of that mission was. I didn’t go through K-Division training to get stuck driving in a convoy. Coulda stayed home and been a trucker.”

“It takes a special kind of mind to drive for an endless amount of time in a desert,” Newt says. “Don’t think I’ve got that kind of mind, man.”

“Don’t lose it on me, okay?” Choi says.

“I won’t,” Newt says. Even he can tell they aren’t really joking at this point. He wonders if Choi knows anything about his mental health history. It’s not likely, but Newt’s not exactly subtle about being a little… off.

“You bring anything sexy with you to keep you company till we ship out?” Choi asks. 

“Yeah!” Newt welcomes the topic change. He ducks under the canopies they’ve erected around the Humvees (which are thankfully painted the right color and will totally blend into the jungle) and goes digging through his pack. “I’ll trade a few. I’ve memorized some of these ladies like they were my girlfriends.”

“You have someone back home?”

“Nah,” Newt says, swallowing hard. “Haven’t hit anything serious yet. I was a late bloomer, yanno. No one wants to settle down with a kid like me.”

Choi laughs and slaps his back. “How old you think I am, man? I’m still in my twenties!”

“But dude, you’re practically married!”

Choi’s grin should be criminalized. “Yeah, but we like to keep things… open.”

Newt can feel his eyes popping. “Dude, what? She’s cool and you’re cool?”

“It’s all about honesty, man,” Choi says with a shrug. “I’m not the jealous type, and neither is my Alison. We just keep each other updated. It’s kinda hot, to tell you the truth.”

“Lucky fucker,” Newt says, ignoring the jealous pit yawning in his stomach. He hasn’t had someone care about him that much yet. It’s a pretty shitty feeling, knowing that he’s this far behind all the rest of the guys. So far ahead in terms of brains, though, and he’s fucking adorable if he does say so himself. He hasn’t had a chance to show off his tattoos yet but they make him feel pretty extra sexy, too. He knows he’s got it going on. He just hasn’t figured out how to use all his assets. Yet. It’ll happen.

“I know it,” Choi says, preening. He readjusts the rosary around his wrist and hunkers down, rifling through Newt’s stash. “Lotta comics in here, man.”

“I like comics,” Newt says, shrugging.

“Not all porn, either, I see,” Choi says, waving _Deadpool_ in his face with a smile. “Oh, but what’s this I see?”

“Not all manga is porn, dude,” Newt sighs, swatting _Gangsta_ out of Choi’s hands. 

Choi flicks through the few skin magazines Newt’s acquired and picks two. “I’ll trade you some of what Alison’s sent me for this. She hooked up with a girl who was really, really good at photography a while back.”

Newt tries not to look shocked. “Uh, I’d feel kinda weird about that, honestly. I know you guys are cool but I’d feel bad jerking it to someone else’s girlfriend. Significant other. Thing.”

Choi shrugs. “I have tamer stuff.”

“I’ll trust you,” Newt says. 

“I can give it to you before we ship out, for sure,” Choi says. “I gotta shit but then I’ll be back.”

“Cool,” Newt says, picking up one of the Deadpool comics Choi dropped. “I’ll be here.”

He hunkers down by his pack, listening to the rain drip on the tarpaulin above his head. It’s a kind of steady, depressing, relentless rain. He likes it. The sound is soothing. The smell is soothing, too. Wet pine and dirt and a sort of misty miasma that creeps up from the ground. He starts reading.

He makes it through that issue and is doing push-ups in order to feel more like a serious K-Division badass and less like a comic-collecting teenager before Choi makes it back.

“Where were you, man?” Newt huffs.

“Gottlieb caught me,” Choi says.

“Pooping?”

“No,” Choi says, sounding surprisingly serious. “We’re shipping out in half an hour. We’re about two hundred miles from the place we need to be. They dropped us in the wrong fucking spot.”

“Oh shit,” Newt says, popping up. “Bet he was pissed.”

Choi shrugs. “Iceman, you know. He was the icy kind of pissed. Just be ready. We gotta get there soon or else our mission’s moot. Another too-long drive. I hope whatever intel we have is good.”

“Me too,” Newt says, resettling the comics in his bag. Choi pops a couple magazines in front of his face and Newt jerks back, then leans forward.

“You thought I’d forget?” Choi says. “Tendo Choi always pays his debts.”

“Well, I dunno about winter but I’ll for sure be coming,” Newt says, tucking the porn mags away reverently. “Thanks, man.”

“Stay frosty,” Choi tells him. They do that manly kind of hug where the handshake stays between them the whole time and there’s a lot of back-slapping to distract from the fact that this is a bonding moment. Choi smells really nice and Newt tries not to get distracted by that fact. Proximity is starting to be an issue. God, he misses human contact.

“Same to you,” he manages as Choi’s leaving. The man doesn’t turn but he does lift a hand in acknowledgment. Newt starts packing everything up.

“Ah, excellent,” Gottlieb says, walking up. He’s still pretty jerky on his feet. Newt’s not about to comment.

“Corporal Choi told me we were shipping out soon,” Newt says. “We gonna get there in time to catch those fuckin Kaiju, sir?”

“I’d like to think so,” Gottlieb says. “Regrettably, I am capable of counting the odds.”

“And?”

“They’re not good, Geiszler. We have over a thousand kilometers to cover through some areas that are still densely populated. Less densely populated than they used to be, sadly, but even so.”

Newt shrugs. “We’re K-Division. We’ll do our best and hope for a miracle.”

“That’s not our motto.”

“I know, man. It’s mine. One of many, actually.”

“Really.” Gottlieb digs in his pack and pulls out a few grubby pieces of paper. He tugs a pair of old-man glasses on a string out of one of the pockets on his combat jacket and perches them on his nose with a faint sniff. 

“You look like a grandma,” Newt says.

The glasses make Gottlieb’s eyes shrink slightly, but his glare is still a force to be reckoned with. “Shut up.”

“You know they make glasses that are, like, actually nice-looking, right?”

“Then why did you choose to purchase a pair that are so obviously outdated?”

“Oh, dude, don’t you even get me started on outdated! I know we’re far from civilization but there are mirrored surfaces around, take a look in one!”

“I see yours as something popular once in the late fifties. Buddy Holly-esque.”

“You know Buddy Holly?”

Gottlieb rolls his eyes and unfolds the papers into a stained and slightly torn map. “My sister has a fondness for his music, as does Corporal Choi.”

“All my love! All my kissin!” Newt sings suddenly. “You don’t know what you’ve been missin, oh boy!”

Gottlieb’s glasses have slid almost to the end of his nose. They are in the prime position for him to stare disbelievingly over them at Newt. “Geiszler, no.”

“When you’re with me, oh boy!” Newt continues, miming air guitar. “The world can see that you! Were meant! For me!”

The glasses drop off Gottlieb’s face and bang against his chest. “Stop.”

“C’mon, man, you gotta know the words if you’re a true Holly fan!” He launches into the song again. “All my life! I’ve been waitin! Tonight there’ll be no—”

“I can enjoy someone’s music without being labeled a ‘fan,’ Geiszler. I am not going to sing.”

“Weak,” Newt drawls.

Gottlieb’s lips tighten. “I would have to disagree with you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Newt snorts. Gottlieb doesn’t respond. Newt clears his throat. “Sorry.”

Gottlieb snaps the map into a stiffer shape. He squints. Then he replaces his glasses on his nose, snaps the map into shape again, and frowns at it.

Newt’s hit a nerve. “I am sorry, man. I’ll leave it.”

“Where are First Lieutenant Espera and Lance Corporal Trombley?”

“Hey.” Newt slaps him on the back lightly. “Didn’t mean to offend.”

“Kindly fuck off and get them, Geiszler, if you truly are sorry,” Gottlieb hisses. “We ship out in fifteen.”

“Yes, sir,” Newt says quietly. He tosses his bag in the driver’s seat and darts off. It’s gonna be hard to give the guy space when they’re crammed in a car together for the next few endless hours.

Espera’s chatting with a few of the guys Newt doesn’t know so well, the boys who’re teamed up with that barrel of sunshine Lilywhite. Espera’s having the same problems Newt has; his glasses keep getting drenched. It’s not good for visibility. They better stay dry in the Humvees they have over here. At least there are windows on all four doors. 

“Espera!” Newt calls.

“Yeah, what?”

“We’re shipping out. You know where Trombley is?”

Espera shrugs. “Jerking off?”

“Yeah, probably. Head back, Iceman’s got his knickers in a twist and I’d rather he not get more pissed.”

“You’re the mum and dad on this bugfuck roadtrip, you know that right?” says one of the guys Newt doesn’t know. He’s got an Australian accent but he's younger than Captain Hansen. There must be more Aussies in this part of K-Division than Newt thought.

He’s just as rude as Captain Hansen, though. Newt blinks at him. “You don’t fuckin know me.”

The Aussie laughs and raises his hands like he’s warding Newt off. “Yeah, whatever, _Mum_. Espera’s been telling us stories. Trouble in paradise, eh?”

“Shut up, asshole,” Espera says.

“You the good girl in the family?” the Aussie's friend asks Espera. “Good little daughter, bonding with Mommy?”

Newt rolls his eyes. “Whatever, fuckos. Espera, get back there. Tell Trombley if you see him. I’m gonna check the perimeter and then head back. We leave in five.”

“You gonna have time to get all the way around?” Espera asks.

“Gonna try!” Newt calls over his shoulder, and breaks into a run. He can’t see anything apart from big shapes distorted by water but it’s enough for him not to run into anything. He stumbles a lot but that comes with the bespectacled territory. He calls for Trombley every now and then. It makes him feel like he’s trying to get his doggie to come home, though, so he mostly just tries to look for a blonde asshole who’s saying stupid, psychotic shit.

He circles back in time to catch hell from Gottlieb. Trombley arrived right after Newt left. 

“We were waiting on you, Corporal Geiszler!” Gottlieb snarls. “We are the lead van, after all! Get in.”

Drenched and gasping, Newt slides into the driver’s seat (which is on the other side of the car, and he really hopes that isn’t going to throw his driving game off). “Everybody buckle up. Ah, shit, I am the mom.”

Espera snorts from his position in the turret. “Nah, man. Sorry about those guys.”

“Forget it,” Newt says. “Ready?”

“ _Go_ , Geiszler,” Gottlieb says.

“Yessir,” Newt says, and guns it.

“Careful!” Gottlieb shouts as Espera yelps and swears at him. “Bloody idiot!”

“Wait, shit,” Newt says, stopping the car. He taps into coms. “Anyone seen that fuckin reporter?”

“Oh, damn,” Gottlieb sighs.

“Got him,” says Choi over coms. “Sending him to you.”

“Thanks, man,” Newt says.

The reporter is just as soaked and out of breath as Newt was, so Newt doesn’t hassle him. Neither does Gottlieb. The man’s clammed up. He actually kind of looks like a clam, all tight mouthed and grumpy.

“Okay,” Newt tells everyone over coms, “now we can ship outta here.”

“Fuckin finally,” he hears someone growl. It sounds like the Australian.

“Follow my sweet ass to victory,” Newt says back. “Over and out.”

“Oh, really,” Gottlieb says. “Must you be so crude?”

Newt stares at him. “Dude. You’re in a branch of the military. I’ve learned swears, slurs, and sexual positions I never dreamed were even _real_ here. This is no place for a prude.” Newt starts the car again and sets off a bit slower, with a mind to Espera up top now.

“Professional,” Gottlieb hisses. “I am a _professional_ at all times!”

“And I ain’t,” Newt tells him. “Doesn’t make me bad at my job, does it?”

Gottlieb’s silent. This means Newt wins. And it means the guy’s still talking to him. Newt slaps on the windshield wipers and grins as he starts yet another goddamn convoy.

“On the road again,” Newt sings. “I can’t wait to get on—”

“Shut up,” Gottlieb says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worked out the times for travel on this thing on Google maps. I swear it's semi-legit. The flight's from about Jinzhou, Liaoning, China. They land somewhere around Fukuoka and they have to get to somewhere around Niigata, if you're curious about the route they roughly take. I'm not going to be that detailed, though, since I don't know the terrain or anything and they're in a war zone now so things can change a bit. I'll be taking liberties, basically.
> 
> I want to write Tendo Choi all day every day because he is actually the greatest thing ever. I want to be his best friend.
> 
> _Gangsta_ is a pretty violent manga. _Deadpool_ is even an more violent American comic.
> 
> Newt sings a bit from "Oh Boy" by Buddy Holly and the Crickets, which has lyrics that are too perfect. He also sings a bit of "On The Road Again" by Willie Nelson.
> 
> ED: I forgot, Japanese cars and roads follow the UK model of driving on the left with the steering wheel on the right, so I added a tiny line about that.


	5. Chapter 5

“Hey, Iceman.”

“What, Geiszler?”

“Did you get your name because you iced a bunch of people?”

There’s silence for a moment. “What does that mean?”

“It’s when you have a thing of Smirnoff Ice—”

“I don’t know what that is, either.”

“Jesus Christ appearing on a sandwich, it’s a kind of vodka.”

“I dislike the direction this is taking.”

“So you present Smirnoff Ice to someone and they have to drop on one knee and drink the entire thing and that’s called getting iced.”

“No, Geiszler, I should think it is fairly obvious that I did not acquire my nickname due to my propensity for a particular drinking game.”

“Do you get points for all the big words you use?”

“Shut up.”

“I think that’s the most overused phrase you’ve ever spoken to me, sir.”

“You don’t bloody well listen, do you?” Gottlieb says. “Maybe I’d stop saying it if you started obeying.”

Espera pops his head down from the turret. “You know, it’s really like being on a shitty family road trip with you two.”

“Man your post, First Lieutenant Espera,” Gottlieb says.

“Yessir.”

There is blessed silence for a while then. Trombley and the reporter have switched their places just like Newt and Gottlieb have, to accommodate for the British shape of the car. It’s disconcerting. Newt tries to remember different skeletal systems, then nerves, then muscle groups to distract himself as they barrel along. He thinks about Kaiju, too.

They have to be like ghosts, able to drop in and out of space at a moment’s notice. The level of ecological disaster, though… That’s something odd. It has a name now, thanks to Gottlieb. Kaiju Blue, making it miles and miles out to sea, killing fish and reefs and the tourist inclination to go to a beach. Even nude beaches are becoming increasingly abandoned. There are patrols along the Great Barrier Reef at this point. Too many places have been hit. Australia can’t afford to lose scuba revenue and marine biologists can’t afford to lose that much life. There are other places that are important, too, obviously. Fish were dying even before the Kaiju started their attacks.

How does Kaiju Blue spread so far so fast, though? How does it stick around so long? It’s gotta be something like crude oil. Maybe the blue is to make it blend in? Newt needs a sample. He needs it like he needs to breathe. No matter if they make it to the drop site in time or not, he’s gotta get a little bit of Kaiju Blue and then he’s gotta get his hands on a microscope and a centrifuge and—

There’s no fucking way he’s getting any of that lab stuff in the field.

Newt takes a deeper breath than normal as he realizes that he’s going to have to book it out of K-Division as soon as he gets some decent materials to work with in a lab. He’s a science geek, not a soldier, and he’s going to have to solve this the nerd way rather than the alpha-male way. He can repress the nerd all he wants to fit in with the meatheads, but when push comes to shove he’s going to have to push and shove with science against the Kaiju, not with actual physical pushing and shoving. Because he’s short and that would look stupid.

“Hey, Newt?” the reporter man says.

“Yeah, what?” Newt says.

“I have to pee.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Can we, uh, pull over?”

Newt shoots a look at Gottlieb. “Iceman?”

“No, we cannot. We have a rendezvous to make, hopefully before terrorism actually occurs at the site. Trombley?”

“Yeah?” Trombley says.

“Have you got an empty bottle back there that Mister Becket can use?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the reporter says. “What if I have to, you know, poop?”

“You’re aware that we made you buy us adult diapers for a reason and not just because we get off on dressing like babies, right?” Newt says.

The reporter’s eyes are absolutely enormous when Newt shoots him a look in the rearview. “No way.”

“Yeah, man, gospel. Not fun times. We try to avoid it.”

“Geiszler,” Gottlieb snaps suddenly. “Traffic.”

“And we were doing so fuckin well,” Newt growls, slamming on the brakes. It’s brake lights as far as the eye can see, unfortunately, and the only clear exit is about a mile away. It’s strange to see the headlights coming towards them on the right and to have Gottlieb bitching at him on his left. Newt can’t wait to get back to the American style of driving.

“Looks like you get to piss by the side of the road like a human being,” Espera comments from above.

“Trombley, take over Espera’s place,” Gottlieb says. “Espera, get some rest. I can cover the reporter. Mister Becket, get out an piss quickly.”

The reporter doesn’t make a move to leave the Humvee. “Uh.”

“Problem?” Gottlieb asks.

“I’ve got kind of a shy bladder,” he says.

“Dude,” Espera says, dropping back into the car and kicking at Trombley, “stop being a candyass.”

“Good word, my friend,” Newt tells him. “Underused and undervalued.”

The reporter pops the door and steps into the dripping rain, turns his back on the entire convoy (to great whistled enthusiasm from down the line) and stands there, apparently contemplating his shoes with his hands clasped in front of him.

“Sergeant Gottlieb,” says a sudden voice on Gottlieb’s side of the Humvee. Newt jerks because, yeah, holy shit, that’s a girl right there. Japanese, too, by the accent. Her hair’s buzzed short like a guy’s and she’s in the same baggy uniform they all are but she’s even prettier in the face region than Gottlieb, which is saying something.

“First Lieutenant Mori,” Gottlieb says with a nod, pulling his gun out of her way so she can lean in the window. 

“My coms are down,” she says, “and I am not supposed to be here in any case. I just came to say that we have word of another Kaiju assault plan. They are going to go after New Zealand again—”

“For the fifth bloody time?” Gottlieb says, hands clenching around his gun. “It’s incessant and unnecessary!”

“I agree with you, Sergeant,” Mori says with a shrug. “We are doing what we can. I am here because I am needed to translate and infiltrate, but I am also gathering intelligence. I thought you would wish to know.”

“Have they hit Japan yet?” Gottlieb asks her quietly.

“Yes,” she says.

Gottlieb leans his head back and shuts his eyes. Newt wants to reach over and rub his shoulders because the man looks _in pain_ , tense, miserable and tired. Then Gottlieb sits back up and the mask is back in place, smooth and mechanical and efficient. “Are we still proceeding to the site?”

Newt prays silently to a god he grew up with and no longer believes in. They have to go to that site. He’s got to see. He’s got to collect some samples. He needs resources to do what he does best.

“Yes,” Mori says. 

Newt tries not to sigh in relief and instead wheezes. 

Mori looks at him with a faint smile but continues talking to Gottlieb. “You will be checking the site for booby traps and potential hostiles. Mine sweeping, essentially.”

“Very well,” Gottlieb says, readjusting his grip on his gun. “Is that all, First Lieutenant?”

Mori stands up and salutes smartly. “Yessir.”

Gottlieb waves a hand and Newt almost has a heart attack because the guy’s _smiling_! Just a little bit, but with a mouth like that, any upturn at the corners is worth writing home about. “No need for that, First Lieutenant. Our fathers are enemies and you should be a sergeant major or some such title by now.”

“Flatterer,” Mori says with a wide grin.

“Nonsense,” Gottlieb tells her.

“Uh. Hey,” Trombley drawls from the turret.

It’s a gross tone of voice. It’s seductive in all the wrong ways, out of place and awkward in a war zone. Gottlieb covers his own face with one hand. Mori looks at Trombley blankly and the guy kind of just shuts down, unable to match her cool stare. 

Newt waits a beat before breaking into hysterical giggles. “Sweet Tidy Bowl Jesus skipping on the blue toilet water, Trombley, this isn’t a fuckin singles bar!”

“Shut the fuck up, faggot!” Trombley yells. Newt throws his head back and laughs harder. Espera joins in from the back seat.

“Tidy Bowl?” Mori says, a faint frown line between her perfectly arched eyebrows.

“It’s a brand of toilet cleaner,” Gottlieb says around a deep sigh. “Don’t worry yourself about it. Ignore all of these morons I am burdened with.” 

“You love me, Iceman,” Newt says, trying to control his giggles. “You love all your little children.”

“Iceman?” Mori says, even more confused.

“I shall explain at a later date, First Lieutenant,” Gottlieb tells her. “No need to suffer these fools any longer. Notify me if there is anything I can assist you with, or if you know where we will end up for our next mission. which I hope will be more of a success than this one so far.” The man leans back again for a moment and sighs again. “Only a little more than halfway there and it is getting dark.” He says it so quietly Newt wonders if he meant to say it aloud at all.

Mori asks something fast in Japanese that’s probably meant to be private (and isn’t that interesting, that she’d tell Gottlieb something in Japanese and expect him to get it). Newt isn’t quick enough on the draw to translate it that quickly, but he listens hard to Gottlieb’s answer.

“Watashi wa daijōbuda,” the man tells her with atrociously bland and excessively formal diction. “Watashi wa sukoshi nagai no tame no jūbun'na kusuri o motte iru. Shinpaishinaidekudasai.”

“You, sir, are not a linguist,” Mori tells him with a faint smile.

“I have done my best, First Lieutenant, and I’m afraid that is all that can be done,” Gottlieb says. He salutes her once more and she responds with a salute of her own before glancing at the rest of their car.

“Who is the annoying one?” she asks, eyeing Newt.

“Kare ni damasa renaide kudasai,” Newt says with the best accent he can muster. “Kawaīdesu.” Mori’s face lights up while Gottlieb’s face turns into the pure embodiment of horror. Newt snickers at him. “Remember, I fuckin said I could speak Japanese.”

Gottlieb’s mouth thins away almost to nothing. “I believe we will be moving soon. Farewell, First Lieutenant.”

Mori is doing a great job covering her smile with her hand, but she does an automatic bow as she backs away from Gottlieb’s window and then jogs ahead down the line of cars.

“Oh God,” the reporter says, scaring all of them as he slides back into the Humvee. “I thought she wasn’t going to leave. Sorry to hold you guys up. Who was she?”

“First Lieutenant Mako Mori,” Gottlieb says. “You didn’t hold us up. We’ve barely moved.”

The reporter leans towards Gottlieb a little. “You guys know each other? Do you think she’d be down for an interview on the status of women in the military?”

“Yes.” Gottlieb keeps shooting looks at Newt. Considering the fact that they’re still ten cars away from inching forward, Newt’s willing to be distracted by this.

“Problem, sir?” he says innocently.

Gottlieb merely glares at him. “Damatsu,” he snaps.

“Yeah, man, don’t worry about it,” Newt says with a shrug. “Your business.”

“What’d I miss?” the reporter says, frowning. “Can everyone speak Japanese?”

“Nope,” Espera says, “and I’m kind of glad I can’t. Seems Mom and Dad are fighting in other languages now.”

“First Lieutenant Espera,” Gottlieb sighs, “please stop perpetuating this family road trip metaphor.”

“Sir yes sir,” Espera says.

“Do you know many women in the military?” the reporter asks.

“Yes,” Gottlieb says. “Particularly this war.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re taking everyone, regardless of social stereotypes,” Gottlieb says, squeezing the bridge of his nose before resettling himself in his seat.

“It’s progressive,” Newt says happily. “Wish they’d mix up the ranks a bit more.”

“Fuckin right!” Trombley calls from above. “We’re pussy-deprived out here!”

“Goddammit, Trombley,” Newt shouts, “that’s not what I meant!”

“Then what the fuck’s wrong with you, man?” Espera says. “Women are good at shit, I’ll agree with that, they can join the military if they want, but I’m not gonna lie; I am seriously deprived. It’s a drought. No chicks, only little assholes like you. You ain’t cute to look at like a lady, Newt, I hate to break it to you.”

Gottlieb sighs. “Will all of you be quiet? First Lieutenant Mori is an old friend and I would appreciate it if you kept your objectification of her outside my hearing range.”

“Sir yes sir,” Newt says, and Espera echoes him. Trombley says nothing.

“Trombley,” Gottlieb says.

“Yeah, sir, okay,” Trombley grumbles.

“So, how can I get her to talk to me?” the reporter asks.

“Mister Becket,” Gottlieb says, “I will ask her at a later date.”

“Before we leave Japan?” the reporter says.

Gottlieb’s hands clench on his gun, then relax. “Yes. Before then.”

“Awesome.” The reporter sits back and smiles at nothing. “She seems very cool.”

“Indeed,” Gottlieb says.

Newt inches them forward and, for once, says nothing. He’s about to start taking shots of 5 Hour Energy and he’s going to have to prepare for that fucked up Nirvana to consume his mind. It won’t be pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concept of "icing" was only recently explained to me. It happened at a friend's brother's wedding. To the groom. At the altar.
> 
> This is probably the first time I've noticed that there's maybe a plot to be had in this fic. We'll see if one emerges or if it stays a weird roadtrip that ends in shooting or something else horrible.
> 
> Mako needed to be here because she is super great and badass. 
> 
> I stole Newt's insult to Trombley about Tidy Bowl Jesus from the novel _You Suck_ by Christopher Moore because it gets stuck in my head sometimes and I almost fell over laughing the first time I read it.
> 
> I wish I knew how to code mouseover translations but basically the Japanese conversation runs:  
> HERMANN: I am fine. I have enough medicine for a bit longer. Don't worry.  
> NEWT: Please don’t be fooled him. I’m cute.  
> HERMANN: Silence.  
> Based on Google translate and a rudimentary understanding of sentence constructions picked up by watching subbed anime. I tried to make Hermann's sound more formal and awkward. All the "watashi wa" is probably weird-sounding to a native speaker because "I am" is usually implied, more like the word Newt uses when he says "I'm cute." And Hermann's verbage is weird, too, hopefully, because I picked the Japanese for "silence" rather than "shut up." I think he'd have a limited vocabulary in a language he only spoke with one person, though someone as cool as Mako would inspire him to try and pick up the language a bit to impress her and her cool dad. I think about linguistics a lot for someone who doesn't speak anything well except English.


	6. Chapter 6

“I’m not sick but I’m not well,” Newt whispers to himself, trying to hit the right notes without raising his voice. “And I’m so hot cause I’m in hell.”

“I can hear you,” Gottlieb says.

“C’mon man,” Newt says. His voice is still too quiet but every time he tries to raise it, it makes him feel blasphemous. It’s dark. They haven’t stopped driving, except to refuel the car. Newt’s been going for ten hours he thinks. It might be more. It’s definitely not less. The reporter fell asleep. Trombley kept telling weird stories about how much he likes cats and hates dogs. Then Espera switched places with him to rest his legs and is looking out the window into the still darkness, ignoring everyone. Newt has his night-vision goggles on and everything is green and it’s starting to freak him out a little. Not a lot, because he’s in K-Division and he’s played a lot of shitty video games, but it’s so _quiet_. The forest is fucking scary enough as it is, but there should be something rustling around out there. Nothing’s making noise except the Humvees. Newt needs to break that quiet a bit. Not too much, though, so he whispers instead of belting out songs that will make him feel less terrified. “Lemme just do whatever, okay Iceman?”

Gottlieb says nothing.

“Fine,” Newt says, taking another swig of 5-Hour Energy. He has never been tempted to do coke before but now he’s severely tempted. He wishes he knew people who sold drugs. He wishes he could care even less about his mental health status so that he would be willing to take those drugs. He takes another sip of 5-Hour Energy.

“Stop that,” Gottlieb says.

“Stop what? I fucking stopped singing already.”

“Stop drinking that.”

Newt snorts. “Gotta stay awake, man.”

“You’re shaking, most likely from low blood sugar. Eat something.” Gottlieb glances back at him, the night vision goggles hiding most of his face. “You do have snacks, I presume?”

“I’m seventy percent snacks, actually,” Newt says.

“I would have suspected more.”

“Nah.”

“As your superior officer—and this is an order, Geiszler—eat something already.”

“Yeah,” Newt says fumbling in a pocket. He comes out with a tube of candy. “You want?”

“What is it?”

“Starburst.”

“That is not real food, Geiszler,” Gottlieb says. Newt just waggles the tube at him and Gottlieb sighs. “…Red.”

Newt gestures with the candy towards his face and the night goggles wedged over his regular glasses. “I can’t see colors in this shit, man.”

“Make an educated guess.”

“And you assume I’m ejumacated.”

“I know full well you have three advanced degrees.”

Newt’s hand tightens on the wheel. “What, that’s crazy.”

“I thought the same. Why would you refuse so spectacularly to specialize?”

“I couldn’t have three degrees by now, man, I’m only a few months into twenty.”

“You are a prodigy, Geiszler, and don’t attempt to prove otherwise. You’ve been trying to prove that you’re an idiot every since I met you. You will be pleased to know you have succeeded up until recently.”

Newt swallows. “What happened recently?”

“I recalled that your moniker is not actually your true name.” Gottlieb clears his throat. “I asked Corporal Choi about it. He informed me that you are Newton Geiszler.”

“Yeah, don’t go spreading that around too much. It’s a dumb first name. I prefer Newt.”

“I am aware. Your given name is on quite a few academic papers, in some capacity or another.”

“Nah.”

“Yes.”

Newt starts shaking his head. His packet of Starbursts slips out of his fingers. It lands somewhere on the floor. He puts both hands back on the wheel and concentrates on driving. His head won’t stop wagging side to side.

“ _Yes_ , Geiszler.” Gottlieb says again. “I read a few during my time at university. They were—”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Newt says softly. “I’ll shut up or whatever, I’ll stop bugging you, I’ll cool it on the singing, just don’t tell people, okay? Please.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m telling you,” Newt whispers. “I’ll do whatever. Don’t say anything.”

“You are keeping your academic achievements a secret?” Gottlieb sounds utterly bewildered but when Newt glances over, he’s looking out the window, gun trained into the night. They’re getting close to where they need to be.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“They don’t need to know,” Newt says. “I’m something different here. Something more important and interesting than Newton Geiszler, multiple PhD-holder. Less important and interesting, maybe. I don’t know. Less punchable, for sure. Something like them. They don’t know any better. I don’t want them to know, either. I really, really don’t want them to know.”

There is silence in the Humvee, except the occasional snore from the reporter.

“Listen when I give you orders, Newton,” Gottlieb says at last, and Newt inhales so hard he almost cracks a rib on the straps of his body armor. “Address me as ‘sir’ when situations require it. Do not distract me during missions. Do your, your _fucking_ job and prove that you are neither less nor more than your fellows, and I will keep this particular aspect of your life to myself. These are the only conditions I would require of you. Is this clear?”

“Yeah,” Newt wheezes. “Shit. Yeah. Oh god. Yes, a million times yes.”

Trombley sticks his head down from the turret. “Jesus, you having a combat jerk while driving, Newt?”

“Fuck off, Trombley,” Newt says.

“Back to your post, Trombley,” Gottlieb snaps. “Eyes out, not in.”

“You into it, sir?” Trombley snickers, clearly not knowing when it’s a bad idea to push. “Road head?”

Gottlieb’s articulate, shrieking barbs actually wake the reporter up hard and fast enough that the man nearly smacks Espera in the face with a flailing limb. Espera blocks him, swats back, then punches Trombley’s leg. “Goddammit, people, we’re the lead car, not a clown car!”

“What happened?” the reporter says, his voice a rough and frantic buzz.

Gottlieb ignores him. “Thank you, First Lieutenant Espera,” he says, resettling his gun against his shoulder. Newt notes that the guy still hasn’t loosened up yet, remaining a tight wad of limbs and muscle even after however many hours it’s been in the goddamn Humvee. The guy’s stubborn. Not doing his leg any favors. Hopefully he’s a deal-keeper, too.

Newt reaches for his 5-Hour Energy again before remembering. “Oh fuck.”

“What?” the reporter says.

“Dropped my candy,” Newt says, wondering whether to fumble around his feet or give everything up as a bad deal. He shifts his left leg around under his right, feeling as best he can for the little paper tube. Something rattles against his boot. “Ah, got it!” He bobs up and down, feeling for it and then checking the road.

“Eyes front, Geiszler!” Gottlieb snarls.

“Getting fruity snacks, sir!” Newt says, his fingers closing on the treat.

“Are you setting me up for faggot comments or what?” Trombley says from up top.

“Fuck off, Trombley!” Newt thumbs a square out of the wrapper and holds it up for inspection. It’s a dull, weird green like everything else through the goggles. He reaches over and taps Gottlieb’s shoulder with it. “Here, this might be red.”

“Might?” Gottlieb says.

“I don’t fuckin know, man, just try it,” Newt says.

There is silence for a while as Newt struggles to pull out another candy, unwrap it, and then shove it and four of its fellows into his mouth. His jaws ache around the sugary Starbursts. He feels like he’s going to start drooling at any second from how sweet it all is. It’s a mass of fruit and gummy glue and he manages to swallow all of it. He drives. Then, quietly, he begins singing, “It’s cold in the desert, water never’s easy round, special hunts for guns without sound…”

“Quit wailing like a lovesick cat,” Gottlieb says. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s how the song goes,” the reporter says.

“Outed!” Newt howls happily. “The liberal media scum listens to Kings of Leon! Your taste in music is _shit_!”

“You’re the one who started singing the song, Geiszler,” Gottlieb says. “Clearly you have it memorized.”

“Yeah, but I use it to figure out who’s got shit taste. It’s about a six on the Shitty Taste in Music Scale. By the way, you pass this particular round of testing.”

“Yes, I’m so thrilled. This is truly an honor I shall treasure into my old age.” The sarcasm is spread on thick and Newt ignores it completely.

“You’re welcome, Iceman. You are completely welcome. You know, you’d get bonus points if you sang Buddy Holly with me.”

Gottlieb shakes his head once. “Mister Becket, kindly keep Gesizler’s musical trash talk out of your article. It is irrelevant to the mission.”

“Oh, so he has a name?” Newt says. “We’re not calling him liberal media scum? You don’t like the nickname I picked?”

“Shut up, Geiszler.”

“I’m actually just writing about K-Division, Sergeant Gottlieb,” the liberal media scum (Becket, now, to his best friend Iceman) says. “Anything you guys do is relevant. I’m not passing judgement or anything. I’m just trying to humanize you guys and what you do.”

“Indeed.”

Somehow, Newt gets the impression that Gottlieb thinks this is the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. He’s too polite to say it (and who rammed the Stick of Good Manners up his ass that hard?) but he’s too much of a bitch to keep it to himself completely. Hence the most disgusted tone of voice Newt’s ever heard.

“Turnoff ahead,” comes crackling through coms.

“Oh my god, we’re here,” Newt says. He cheers weakly, raising one fist. “No more caffeine!”

“At least, not for the moment,” Gottlieb growls. “I have little hope for your future use and abuse of energy drinks.”

“And I can take a shit!” Newt sings, ignoring him. “Hell yeah, hell yeah, hell fuckin yeah! I’m tellin you, all that caffeine plus long roadie? Not good on the ol’ sphincter. I’m about to explode with—”

“Geiszler!” Gottlieb says. 

“Iceman!” Newt says right back, and giggles.

Gottlieb’s got his hand on Newt’s arm, long fingers digging through the thick layers of his uniform hard enough to bruise. “Concentrate, Gesizler,” Gottlieb tells him. “We’re not to unfocus ourselves just yet. They could still be there.”

“No damn way,” Newt says, but he breathes in the meditative pattern one of his therapists taught him. It won’t do to have an episode right here, right now. He’s teetering on the brink of something and has only himself to blame, but maybe he can hold it off. It’s hard, running on so little sleep. How the fuck did he get so many degrees like this? How did he forget how horrendous this feels every time? It’s not something he can get used to. He just keeps doing it, though. Destroy body and mind and keep truckin.

“They may still be present,” Gottlieb says. “You can’t know for sure.”

“I’ll bet you my last can of Red Bull,” Newt tells him.

“I do not partake,” Gottlieb says. “Strong black tea is as stimulating as I’ll accept.”

“Ich werde dir ein Bier nach dem Krieg kaufen,” Newt says. When Gottlieb doesn’t answer, he glances over. The guy is, predictably, in the perfect defensive position, stiff as hell, gun pointed out into the trees. The forest has thinned out a lot. There are glimpses of blackness between the trees. With the smell seeping in through the cracked windows of the Humvee, it can only be the ocean. There’s something else on the air, though, something like ammonia, a smell that coats the back of Newt’s mouth. This must be the Kaiju Blue he’s heard so little about. Newt squints into the darkness like he’s going to be able to see some UV glow or something out there, but it’s too dark. Even the night vision’s not helping him.

“Bestens,” Gottlieb says. Newt half-glances at him in confusion, unable to recall for a moment what he said that prompted Gottlieb’s response. By the time he remembers what he offered, they’re pulling out onto a bridge and hey, look at that, Newt’s not gonna get to take Gottlieb drinking because they’re now in the middle of a fucking firefight. Bet lost. Shit.

For once, the loose and floaty feeling Newt gets when he’s too far gone is very helpful. He clicks on coms to the entire squad and says, “Bravo One here, taking fire. Repeat, Bravo One taking fire. Hostiles unknown. Permission to engage.”

“Permission to return fire,” someone who presumably has more power than Newt says. “Try to leave some alive. Take prisoners.”

“Bravo One, copy,” Newt says. He pulls the car around sideways so Gottlieb has a better shot and the side of the Humvee will get fucked up rather than the windshield. “Fire away, boys. Reporter man, lay down and keep all your bodily fluids contained. You are allowed to pray.”

The rest of the team’s coming up behind them now. Some cars are swerving, everyone on coms is cursing and demanding answers and, for the most part, not listening to anyone else. Newt eyes the muzzle flashes. They don’t have machine guns or AKs. That’s awesome. It’s pistols and shotguns and shit. Espera lights them up with the turret and Trombley’s screaming incoherently, practically on top of the reporter as he tries to get to the side with the action. Gottlieb is a machine, of course, muttering under his breath like he’s solving some formula as he fires one shot at a time. Newt peeks around everyone’s crazy shooting skills and tries to count. It’s hard. His brain isn’t working too well. He’s starting to slip into auto-pilot, where he’ll do whatever task he can think of (though the thinking itself requires a lot of effort). He fights it. He’s Newton fucking Geiszler and he has a mission to complete. Acquire a sample of Kaiju Blue. Don’t die. Get out. Get a microscope and centrifuge. Do science. Yes. He can do this.

“There’s like twenty of them,” he says over coms. “We’re keeping them low, though. They’re on the other side of the bridge. Does anyone have a better angle on them?”

Everyone’s still yelling. Newt glances out his window and sighs. Everyone's screaming into each other’s faces, waving arms, confusion, etc. He pops open his door (“Geiszler! What the bloody hell are you doing?”) and walks towards the crowd. There are strange whizzing and pinging noises all around him. They’re pretty loud.

The people are louder, though, and Newt’s voice cracks as he shouts over them. “Hey! Anyone wanna help us out with this shit?”

“Are we in the clear to fire?” says that asshole Aussie, Captain Hansen the Younger (“Captain Kangaroo” floats into Newt’s mind, said in Choi’s voice, and sticks).

“Yessir,” Newt tells him. “Go fucking nuts, but try to leave some alive for questioning and shit.”

“Hell yeah!” Captain Kangaroo howls, and he heads for his Humvee. "Let's light these fuckers up!" Newt looks balefully around at the rest of Bravo company, sighs, and walks back to his own team.

“Geiszler,” Gottlieb snarls at him, still firing away into the night. “The fuck were you thinking?”

“Yes, sir, sorry, sir,” Newt drones, pulling his gun out and dropping behind the hood of the car, huddling against the wheel. He starts firing blindly, trying to aim for the flashes of light that show up in his green field of vision. He’s floating so far above himself. His hands are working on autopilot. It’s like the night before his dissertation all over again, which is for sure a bad sign.

“Bit longer,” he mumbles to himself, but it’s not very comforting. He starts singing again, in between firing rounds. “Cause I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby. Yeah, I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby. Listen to Iron Maiden maybe with me.” How do the actual lyrics go? Newt can’t remember the first part so he skips to the end. “Bada bah bah, it’s prom night and I am lonely. Lo and behold, she’s walking over to me. This must be fake. My lip starts to shake. How does she know who I am? And why does she give a damn about me?” Newt tries to raise his voice even higher as he pulls the trigger. “Hm hm hm hmmhmm to Iron Maiden, baby. Come with me Friday, don't say ‘maybe.’ I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby, like you.” The girl part of that song is murder on his vocal cords. Newt feels something whiz past his head and he fires back. He also drops back into his normal singing range. “Oh yeah! Dirtbag! She doesn’t know what she’s missing! Oh yeah!”

“Geiszler!” Gottlieb yells.

“Iceman, you are saying my name way too much,” Newt says. “Now the enemy will know who I am! Uncool.”

Newt can’t really tell if Gottlieb’s flipping out because the night vision goggles are terrible. The guy sounds pissed, though. “Stop singing during a firefight!”

“Sorry, sir. I’ll just shoot shit.”

“Yes,” Gottlieb says. “Do that.”

Newt keeps firing into the night. He’s surrounded by guys doing the same thing. They’re yelling at each other still, but at least they’re all doing something.

The flashes of light stop coming so frequently.

“Let’s take these cunts out!” Captain Kangaroo roars, and there are a few cheers from adrenaline junkies. Trombley’s the first to tumble out of the Humvee and follow behind the guy. Newt stays where he is. Gottlieb and Espera do, too.

“Remember to take prisoners,” Gottlieb yells after the testosterone hoard. “Damn.” The man clicks into coms and repeats the order. Someone apparently confirms because he settles back into providing cover and starts muttering to himself again. Espera just keeps plugging away at the other side of the bridge.

Choi slides up next to Newt, slaps him on the shoulder, and hunkers down with him.

“Hey, man,” Newt says. “What’s shakin?”

“You are,” Choi says, “damn, you okay?”

“Nah,” Newt tells him. “I’m having an episode. Give me twelve hours of sleep and a few sandwiches, though, I’ll bounce back. Maybe a couple therapy visits.”

“First firefight?”

Newt shakes his head. “They were just little flares in the trees to me, man. I’m running on fumes.”

Choi sighs and pulls a packet from one of his uniform pockets. “Here, man. Pop-Tart.”

“Thanks,” Newt says, cramming it in his mouth. “Don’t worry about me. You going over?”

Choi nods once. “Just waiting for the meat-shields. I’m the ninja. Tell Iceman to cool it, I’ll get people to talk.”

“You rock,” Newt tells him through the crumbs. “You are seriously the coolest guy I have ever met ever.”

Choi laughs, slaps him on the shoulder again, and books it out of there after the yelling crowd. Newt takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, trying to pull his thoughts together. Kaiju Blue. It’ll be on the beach.

He needs to get to the shore. Yes. Good plan. The bridge is cleared up, Gottlieb and Espera are still covering (as are the other turrets on the Humvees behind them), the manly men are charging and the ninjas are going to work. Prime time for a scientist to ply his trade.

“I’m gonna go fuck shit up over there, okay?” Newt says, leaning on the hood of the Humvee to drag himself up.

“Get down!” Gottlieb says.

“Nah,” Newt tells him with a dazed smile. “I’ll be right back. Cover me, kay?” He tugs his pack out of the driver’s side of the Humvee and breaks into a shambling run, straight towards the nearly-silent forest on the other side of the bridge. When he glances to the left, he can see the ocean. Well, it’s probably the ocean. Again, everything’s green and pixelated. Still, it’ll be a bit easier to find his way down there.

Gottlieb’s hand clamps onto his arm and Newt almost falls over because holy shit, the guy just put _all his weight_ on Newt. 

“Told you to stop,” the guy wheezes.

“Jesus Christ on a unicycle!” Newt screams, “what the fuck are you doing?”

“You need backup,” Gottlieb growls. “As your commanding officer, I order you—”

“What’s wrong with your legs, dude?” Newt asks. He’s basically holding the guy up because those camo-covered sticks that Iceman’s trying to walk on are shaking. His knees are still bent like he’s still trying to sit down. He’s got a death-grip on Newt’s arm that, yeah, will be bruised up tomorrow for sure, just like the other Gottlieb-finger marks (Newt is not thinking about this right now, he is _not thinking about this_ ). Something is for sure wrong with his sergeant.

Gottlieb’s mouth thins out. “Ich werde es Ihnen erzählen als wir dass Bier zu bekommen. All right?”

“I lost that bet,” Newt says blankly.

“Yes, well,” Gottlieb grumbles, and Newt really wishes that night vision cams weren’t making this into a horror movie because Iceman sounds like he might be blushing.

“Eh, fine,” Newt says. “You need to lean on me?”

“No,” Gottlieb says, but he doesn’t let go.

“You totally can,” Newt says. “Like, until we hit the beach or—”

“The beach?” Gottlieb says, taking a shaky step forward. “Why are we going there?” He stops sinking his skinny fingers into Newt's arm and shifts to wrapping his own arm around Newt's shoulders and using him like a crutch. It's so disappointing that Newt's short enough for this to work.

“Um, well, I’m going there, I guess you can come since you’re in charge of me and I can’t tell you not to come with me, but other than that I don’t really want to tell you.” Newt shrugs. “You cool to go? Our cover can’t hold forever.”

Gottlieb sounds coldly murderous as he says, “Lead the way,” but he stays hooked around Newt’s shoulders as they shuffle across the bridge and into Kaiju territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually the second section I wrote. Now it finally has a place.
> 
> Newt sings "Flagpole Sitta" by Harvey Danger, "Cold" by Kings of Leon, and "Teenage Dirtbag" by Whetus. I didn't look up the lyrics to "Cold" so all the misspeakings are how I heard the lines. Those boys _drawl_ , but don't believe Newt; Kings of Leon has good songs. "Teenage Dirtbag" was unknown to be before I saw _Generation Kill_ so I wanted to include it because wow this fic has really gotten away from the source material.
> 
> Newt's got some level of manic disorder. He's hinted at it it earlier chapters, and in this universe he's going unmedicated, for better or worse.
> 
> I know from friends that coffee is a pretty great laxative. I'm not sure if all caffeine works that way since, like Hermann, I don't really partake. Apologies if the science is off. Poop-science is very important.
> 
> In German, Newt says, "I'll buy you a beer after the war." After a long and significant pause that Newt totally misses because he gets distracted, Hermann says, "Very well." Then all hell breaks loose. The third time Hermann speaks German is totally unnecessary and took me way too long to Google translate into the right shape, but he basically says "I'll tell you when we get that beer" because yeah, he's not talkin. 
> 
> Please let me know how bad the German is and if I can fix it, I'm really trying here. Languages are neat and I'd be delighted to learn about them.


	7. Chapter 7

Gottlieb’s legs finally stop doing whatever they were doing enough that he can walk on his own. He pulls his own night vision goggles on and starts sweeping with his gun while Newt runs into branches and generally makes way too much noise. Newt’s trying to maintain a straight line to the beach. His progress made difficult by the fact that there are trees and rocks and shit in the way. He’s for sure going in the right direction, though. The ground keeps sloping down. No one’s shooting them. These are good signs.

“Bravo Two, this is Bravo One,” Gottlieb mutters into coms. “What is your location? Over.”

“Shh,” Newt says. He then trips over a root and catches himself by smacking his shoulder into a tree. 

“You be quiet,” Gottlieb whispers. The guy limps (with both legs, it looks like) and he’s still better at this whole stealth thing than Newt. Depressing.

“I am busy not damaging expensive, stupid equipment,” Newt tells him, indicating the night vision goggles that he and Gottlieb are both wearing. “I can’t be quiet now, I’ll get even clumsier.”

“I don’t know what logic led you to that conclusion,” Gottlieb says, “but I can tell you it’s stupid.”

“Your face is stupid.”

“Dammit, Geiszler—”

“I take it back, you have a pretty face, you are super kawaii,” Newt giggles. He staggers through a fern and drops to his knees in the sand. “Oh my god, it’s the beach.”

“Oh, God,” Gottlieb whispers. He sounds either awed or horrified. Maybe it’s a bit of both.

“Build me a castle,” Newt says, scraping his hands through the sand. It’s kind of gooey.

“Don’t touch it, idiot!” Gottlieb snaps, pulling Newt upright and holding both his wrists like they’re dead mice. 

“What is it?” Newt asks, frowning at how strange his hands feel. Sand is sticking to them, but also peeling away in thick, viscous ropes that Gottlieb is avoiding very carefully.

“Look at that sheen,” Gottlieb tells him. 

Newt obediently looks. There’s a weird gleam to the beach. The water even seems slimy and sluggish as it beats against the shore. Newt tries to pull his goggles off but Gottlieb’s still pinching both his wrists. 

“Don’t,” Gottlieb says. “You’ll contaminate equipment.” He pushes at Newt’s night vision specs instead, clamping both of Newt’s wrists in his free hand.

It’s not quite black out. The moon’s shining, gibbous enough to illuminate the slick sickness clinging to the sand and the sea. There’s no color in this gloom (rods and cones, Newt thinks to himself, then can’t remember what that particular tangent was related to) but this has to be Kaiju Blue.

“Leggo my eggo, man,” Newt says, yanking free of Gottlieb. “I won’t touch you with my cootie hands, I swear.”

“I am more concerned about you touching _yourself_ ,” Gottlieb says.

Newt snickers. “Touching myself.”

“Stop that,” Gottlieb says. “This is serious. If it is Kaiju Blue, it’s highly toxic and you are at risk of—”

“I’m fine,” Newt says. He needs to use his hands, obviously. He’s got samples to collect. And he needs to put them somewhere… “Hey, can you pull some of my snacks out of my backpack?”

“You are not _eating_ with your hands covered in _that_ ,” Gottlieb says, sounding utterly horrified.

“No duh, but I’m hungry! C’mon, you can feed me like I’m some fancy Roman asshole.”

“Geiszler, no.”

“Please?” Newt whines. “Low blood sugar shakes? I’m pathetic?”

There is a moment of silence. Then: “I am being far too indulgent already. Fine.”

“Plastic baggie of almonds in there,” Newt tells him, turning his back to the guy so Gottlieb can unzip the pack. “I’d also super appreciate it if you, uh, never ever told anyone I resort to puppyface tactics when all else fails. Like, I assume you won’t go around saying to people, ‘Hey, you know Geiszler over there, he whines and rolls over like a bitch if he’s hungry and tired and can’t problem solve,’ but I just thought I’d make it clear.”

Gottlieb shakes the bag of almonds he’s retrieved by Newt’s ear but doesn’t respond.

“Pour em all in my mouth, dude,” Newt says, “and then pass me the baggie.”

“You seem to be… fluctuating,” Gottlieb says, not moving.

“What?”

“Your conversation is erratic. You seem to have some purpose but you keep forgetting what it is, or you are easily diverted by your own thoughts. Are you all right?”

“Yeah, man,” Newt says. “It’s a brain chemistry thing. No sleep and no food make Newt a manic boy. And, like, actual chemical things in general, too, but it’s exacerbated. Ooo, that was a big word, you’re rubbing off on me, dude!”

Gottlieb sighs. “If only I could influence your speech patterns more. What is your purpose behind this mission, Newton?”

“Oh my god, that’s the second time you’ve called me by my first name,” Newt says. “Stop it, I hate it. Is it so hard to say ‘Newt’?”

“Focus,” Gottlieb snaps.

“Can’t tell you, man,” Newt says. “Pour the noms in my face now.” He opens his mouth wide in Gottlieb’s direction. He still can’t see the guy’s face very well because 1) Newt’s not wearing his goggles anymore and 2) Gottlieb still is, and the night vision specs cover his head from nose to hairline (with a helmet on top), but the shadow he does see looks decidedly conflicted, in a pissed-off kind of way. It’s mostly the cheekbones. They are absolutely perfect for a scowl.

“Trust me, okay?” Newt says after his jaw starts aching from holding his mouth open for too long. 

“Very well,” Gottlieb says. “I, ah, may I initiate contact? It is difficult for me to judge distances and I don’t want to waste your food—”

“Yeah, you can touch my face, dude, just don’t make it weird,” Newt says. Good golly is he lucky he’s still flying high and far away from reality because Gottlieb’s bony, cold hand on his face is actually something he would probably daydream about like a highschooler. Then he realizes that he’s having warm fuzzies about his superior officer dumping nuts in his mouth, and he almost chokes.

“Geiszler, for the love of God—”

Newt grunts out a few comforting noises, chewing frantically and waving his hands to indicate that he’s totally fine. Gottlieb promptly corrals his wrists again. The plastic bag is crumpled, pressing between Gottlieb’s fingers and Newt’s wrists. That baggie is so close. _Newt_ is so fucking close to accomplishing something important. He can actually fight this war in his own (super effective) way if he could just get that fucking baggie.

Newt finally clears his mouth, though shards of almond are stuck in his teeth. “Hey, baggie now please. That was the important part of this transaction.”

It’s hard to see details, but Gottlieb has such an expressive bitchface, it comes through no matter what the guy’s wearing on his head. “You’re collecting samples.”

Newt is actually impressed. “That’s hella perceptive, dude. Way to put all the corner pieces together. Well, like, connect the corner pieces with side pieces so you have a general outline. That’s the puzzle metaphor I was— Yes, I am collecting samples.”

“What do you intend to do once you have said samples?” Gottlieb asks.

“Science em into submission. Fix this fuckery.”

“And what makes you think that K-Division is not working on this already?”

Newt laughs. “Man, they don’t have me on the team, they’re not gonna get jack shit out of this material.”

“You have an inflated sense of self-worth, it seems.”

“I’d call it healthy. Or realistic. I know how fucking awesome I am.” Newt tugs at his wrists to remind the guy that there is some wrist-gripping still going on. “I think I said something about leggo my eggo earlier. Consider this a second demand.”

Gottlieb releases him and hands him the baggie, then steps back a few paces. The guy stands at parade rest. That can’t be good for his legs. Gottlieb’s such a stiff curmudgeon.

Newt looks down at the sand so it doesn’t look like he’s staring at his sergeant (even though he totally is) and immediately becomes distracted by the practicality of collecting a sample. Or, like, ten samples. He needs bajillions. Gotta start somewhere, though, and one sample is all he can get right now. Better make it a good one. 

He thinks for a moment, then carefully flips the baggie inside-out. He then dips the inside in the Kaiju Blue, clamping onto handfuls of the oily sand as he turns the baggie right-side out around the goop. Newt seals it carefully and wipes it on his uniform so there won’t be too much residue on the outside from his hands, then unshoulders one strap of his backpack and carefully tucks the baggie into one of the zippered inside pockets.

“Look, man, I’m a legit prodigy,” Newt tells Gottlieb. “I’ll figure something out. Cure all this environmental fuckery. You should probably forget I said that, though, cuz I’m kinda gonna desert K-Division to find a lab that’ll let me use their shit. So. Keep it on the dee el.”

“Excuse me, you are going to _desert K-Division_?” Gottlieb sounds absolutely furious. 

“Yeah. I’d apologize but I’m, like, way more useful in a lab than on the battlefield right now. I’m a genius, not to mention a queer, Jewish, feminist, libertarian asshole with authority issues and a desire to not kill people. It’s actually amazing I haven’t been taken down by my own side yet, though Trombley’s starting to get a little red-faced around me and that’s not a good sign. I gotta bounce, man. I'm not sticking around the lab for long if I can help it, but I gotta fuck with this shit while I have it. I gotta do what I’m good at, same as you.”

“What on earth do you think I’m good at, Geiszler?” Gottlieb says.

Newt shrugs. “I dunno, man. You seem to have a plan to follow orders, which is, yanno, pretty legit. Not my style but you rock it.”

“So you think I am worthless in your vision of society.”

“Uh, no, you said that, not me. I’m saying I have no clue about you, dude. You won’t tell me shit, you just keep us from getting killed and make sure we get where we’re supposed to be. Iceman! Cold enough to make the hard calls and keep us truckin. That’s you!”

“That is not how I received my nickname, Newton.”

Newt frowns. This sounds like a story is brewing. Any time Gottlieb starts using his first name, things seem a little bit stranger. Their script of constant sniping becomes harder to stick to. “Okay, are we doing this now? Cuz I dunno if we’re gonna get killed by Kaiju or what here. But I’m cool with doing this if you think it’s time or whatever. Is this like a big reveal? Are we best friends now? Please say we’re best friends.”

Gottlieb sighs. “You continue to divert my original course of discussion—”

“Oh, no, we’re back to Gesizler now? And I thought I was doing so well!”

“But,” Gottlieb says sharply, “you are correct, we do not have the time currently. Do you have what you came here for?”

“Uh. Yeah. Listen—”

“Then we’ll move,” Gottlieb says. “We need to get you decontaminated. I believe Doctor Chakravarthy is traveling with us.” He slips Newt’s night vision goggles back over his eyes. Everything turns green and grainy again, but it is way more obvious that Gottlieb still hasn’t lightened up in the whole facial region.

“I’m a doctor,” Newt says as he follows Gottlieb back into the forest. “Like, three times a doctor. A doctor cubed.”

“You lack basic medical supplies and even more basic patience,” Gottlieb tells him.

“Well yeah, but I just wanted you to know. Because ha ha, genius over here.”

“I am a PhD as well,” Gottlieb says.

“Damn, they just hand out those fancy diplomas like cotton candy at a carnival, don’t they?”

“It’s painfully apparent that you are in need of food. Your metaphors are deteriorating into planning meals and snacks.”

“What’s your doctorate in?”

Gottlieb takes a long time to answer. “Mathematics and its application to physics.”

Newt sustains a groan for almost a minute. “That’s so boring, dude!”

“Did anything in my demeanor suggest to you that I would seek out a conventionally exciting field of study?”

“Such big words,” Newt says. “I’ll give you ten points but you seriously have to slow your talking and walking down because I am about to die right now.”

Gottlieb pauses his painful-looking forward stride. “Please tell me if you actually feel like you’re dying, Geiszler. Kaiju Blue is a toxic chemical, if you recall.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry, I hyperbolied.”

Gottlieb resumes walking, though his pace is more reasonable. “That is not a word.”

“Whatever.”

“Scan coms, find out what happened.”

Newt salutes his sergeant’s back sarcastically. “Yessir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly few notes this time because Newt doesn't sing anything. The only thing he says in another language is that Hermann is really cute in Japanese (that's what 'kawaii' means--'cute') and then he giggles because wow, this boy no longer has the ability to filter what he's saying.
> 
> Newt quotes the tagline from Eggo waffles. Twice.
> 
> I think I accidentally referenced my own username for a moment; I definitely on-purpose referenced one of my favorite webcomics.
> 
> I probably severely messed with Hermann's fields of study in this AU. He seems like a fairly interdisciplinary guy to me, considering how he had to apply math to natural phenomena and deal with wormholes in _Pacific Rim_. I dunno if it came to me through fandom-osmosis or what, but I've also totally accepted that Hermann's a giant nerd about outer space and took astronomy classes even if they were outside his major(s) and fairly useless overall. Space is great.


	8. Chapter 8

It is really unclear how they make it back. Newt actually has to shove his superior officer up part of an embankment. Doesn’t even get a ‘thanks’ out of it, just a high squeaky noise that’s absolutely worth the effort. Seriously, that squawk was fucking priceless. Then Gottlieb proceeds to _not comment_ on _anything_. Except demanding constant status updates on the rest of their company.

“You’re my RTO,” Gottlieb snaps when Newt whines about it. “Do your bloody job, now that you’ve gotten your side project out of the way.”

“Like it’s a science-fair triptych,” Newt says. “I’m gonna save the fucking world!”

“Keep up,” Gottlieb shouts back to him. “And keep telling me the progress of Bravo Company.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Newt says.

Seems like everyone’s doing fine. Not a lot to worry about, really. They cleaned up the surviving Kaiju really well. Got a couple prisoners by keeping them a secret from Captain Kangaroo, too, which is pretty neat and made Gottlieb almost smile. It was a close thing. Newt still isn’t sure if it was a trick of the night vision goggles or not. He’s fading fast and his eyes may be playing tricks on him, too.

“Dude,” Newt pants as they catch sight of the bridge and start heading towards it, “I have got to sleep soon.”

“We all require sleep, Geiszler,” Gottlieb says.

“No,” Newt says. “You aren’t listening. I mean, I _need_ it. Or else I’m maybe going to just straight-up pass the fuck out.”

Gottlieb glances back at him. “Really.”

Newt tries to look sincere. “Really really, dude.”

Gottlieb looks forward again and drags himself forward on a tree branch that swings back and smacks Newt on the helmet. “Then let us hope that sleep is a possibility soon.”

Newt’s noticing that his sergeant is using his arms to propel himself whenever possible. The leg thing is back, or maybe it’s worse uphill. Either way, Newt feels another surge of camaraderie for this guy; seems Newt’s not the only one hiding severe medical problems that could impede his ability to perform his job to the highest standard. Which is, actually, a super duper bad thing. K-Division probably needs to know they’re dealing with someone who has some iffy brain chemistry as well as someone with dodgy leg-coordination. Then again, just _being_ in K-Division is kind of a death wish and a clusterfuck and a delicious mess, so Newt’s probably not going to get his fellows killed any time soon. Hopefully Gottlieb’ll hang in there, too. And hey, Newt’s always here to lean into him and shove up forward. And not think about his ass. That’s very important. Not thinking about Gottlieb’s ass is now Mission Numero Uno according to Newt’s two semesters of Spanish 101. Kaiju Blue Sample was originally Numero Uno but now it’s this ‘Do not be attracted to the nerd’ mission that takes priority. Finding a place to do adequate amounts of science remains Mission Numero Dos, the way it’s always been. Perhaps it should bump up, though…

“Newt, buddy!”

“Choi!” Newt practically sings, reaching out blindly to hook an arm around Choi’s neck. “I love you, man. Where’d you come from?”

“I was talking to you from five feet away, I don’t— Hey, Sarge, is he okay?”

“He is, in his own vernacular, running on fumes, Corporal Choi,” Gottlieb says. “Do you know where Captain Hansen the Elder is at the moment?”

“Overseeing treatment of the prisoners, sir,” Choi says.

“Good. Would you mind escorting me to his location, if you know it?”

“Uh, sure,” Choi says, still holding Newt up. “You want me to drop _everything_ and go right now?”

“Yes,” Gottlieb says. “But we can bring Geiszler for the moment.”

“Okay, cool,” Choi says. “I mean, I’m sorry if this is outta line, but I have a rule about leaving fucked-up friends alone in fucked-up places, and that rule is ‘Never Ever Do It,’ so I was feeling a little conflicted there for a sec.”

“Understandable, Corporal Choi. Geiszler can be deposited at the Humvee.”

“ _Unsere kleinen Jäger_ ,” Newt sighs happily.

“Geiszler,” Gottlieb says. “Keep it together for just a bit longer. Corporal Choi, do you mind supporting him?”

“Nah,” Choi says, grabbing on to Newt’s hand where it’s still hanging over his shoulder. “He’s frikkin tiny.”

Newt blows a raspberry.

“Good lord,” Gottlieb says, trying to press both his fingers to his temples before remembering that he’s still wearing night vision goggles.

“It’s like taking care of a two-year-old, sir,” Choi says. “I’ve got a lot of practice with that. Younger siblings.” It’s clear by his voice that he’s grinning. This seems unfair. Now Choi’s ganging up on him.

“They are a bane,” Gottlieb says, which, woah, what? Personal information? Gottlieb has siblings? Newt’s not the only one exhausted to the point of oversharing. Well, oversharing by the standards of the sergeant.

“I can take care of myself,” Newt says, pulling away and straightening up. “I’m not someone that you need to babysit.”

Gottlieb hums. It’s a short, quiet hum that very tidily conveys that he thinks Newt’s full of absolute shit.

“Oh, go deal with your command, Iceman,” Newt snaps, waving a hand dismissively. Well, it feels more like he waves his whole body and his hand just happens to wave because it’s attached to the rest of him, but it’s probably still a comprehensible gesture. Probably.

“I’ve got this,” Choi says. He hooks himself under Newt’s armpit like a crutch and starts dragging Newt up the hill again. 

Newt sighs and gives in. “All right, so tell me what happened.”

“All those gung-ho fuckers wiped out some of the Kaiju gung-ho fuckers. Good thing the other side has ninjas like me. I found a couple. Zip-tied em. Kept em away from Captain Kangaroo. That guy’s one bloodthirsty motherfucker.”

“Wow, there was no indication of that in his previous speeches,” Newt says.

“Shut up.”

“Can’t silence the sarcasm. Can’t stop the beat.”

“Aaaaand here we are,” Choi says, popping open a door and sitting Newt down in the front seat of the Humvee. His Humvee. It doesn’t look right, though. Everything’s backwards.

“This ain’t my side,” Newt says, patting the dash. “It’s Gottlieb’s. My side has a wheel.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Choi says. “I’ve gotta go make sure cleanup is going as planned. Stay here, okay?”

“Yup,” Newt says. He presses his cheek against the seat. He doesn’t even come up to the headrest, really. This is just sad.

“Espera and Trombley should be back in about half an hour,” Choi tells him. “The reporter was wandering around last I saw him, but he might come back sooner than that since he doesn’t have a real job to do. Remember him when we leave this time, okay?”

“Yup,” Newt says. His eyes are closed. He’s still wearing his glasses, though. And his night vision on. He should take both off. He really should.

“Okay, Newt,” Choi says. He’s definitely trying to hide a laugh. “I’ll see you around.”

“Yup,” Newt says.

*

Choi’s gone when he jerks himself awake. His mouth tastes sour with sleep, so Newt’s been out for at least fifteen minutes. It’s still dark, though, and he’s still alone in the car. He slips off his goggles to preserve the batteries and then rubs his eyes, knocking off his glasses in the process.

“Fuck,” he mutters. He pulls a Velma, running his hands around the floor of the car. He hits a bottle of pills before he finds his glasses, though. His hand’s wrapped around them before he can even wonder what they’re doing there. The bottle actually feels like a real pharmacy bottle, so he knows it’s not his own Ripped Fuel pills. These are prescription for something.  
His knuckles hit plastic frames and he pulls on his specs, then fumbles through his pockets for his flashlight. Having this many pockets is super cool, but Newt can’t remember what’s in all of them all the time. This is probably a sign that he’s a terrible K-Division soldier but eh. He’s getting out soon anyway.

Flashlight clicks on. Newt swears at the stabbing pain behind his eyes. He squints to read the tiny label.

> Ampyra  
>  (dalfampridine)  
>  Extended Release Tablets  
>  10mg  
> 

“Huh,” Newt says. He shines his flashlight around the floor some more. No other pill bottles pop out at him. When he shakes the bottle, it sounds pretty empty. Is that good or bad? Is it like Advil, or like the meds Newt’s supposed to take on a daily basis? Newt wishes briefly that he was a qualified pharmacist, then wishes that he had an internet connection. He reflects for a moment on the fact that his first inclination was to get a degree in pharmacology before checking Wikipedia. This says something about him. Then he sets the bottle on his lap and leans back to take a serious nap.

The back door pops open. “Newt?”

“Jesus Christ and his little toy bike!” Newt screams, jerking upright and flailing.

The shadowy figure that is Reporterman Becket raises its hands apologetically from the back seat. “Sorry!”

“Oh my God,” Newt wheezes, a hand to his chest. “You are one sneaky motherfucker.”

“Sorry.”

“You get some good quotes or whatever?” Newt asks. He can’t help yawning. “See some neat action?”

“Um,” Becket says. “Do you know that Captain Hansen?”

“Captain Kangaroo?”

“I guess. He’s an Australian guy, about my age, looks—”

“Exactly like you?”

“I— What? I guess. We’re both blonde and—”

“Yeah, I know him. By reputation alone, though.”

Becket clears his throat. “Um. What do you think of the guy?”

“Violent,” Newt says immediately. “Loud. Sweary. Manly. Little too manly, really. The guy’s a testosterone tank. A mighty warrior in the wrong time period. Look, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Becket says.

“Becket— What’s your first name?”

“Oh. Raleigh.”

“What? That’s silly. Sorry. Your name’s silly though. Don’t worry about it, so’s mine. Anyway, that wasn’t my question.”

“…Okay? What is it?”

Newt twists in Gottlieb’s seat and tries to make eye contact with Reporterman Raleigh. It’s too dark to tell for sure, but he thinks he gets it. “When are you heading back?”

There’s a beat before Becket forces a half-hearted laugh. “I’ll be out of your guys’ hair in—”

“Not like that, man,” Newt says. “I meant… Look, do you have an escort?”

“I’m sorry? Like, a military escort?”

“Yeah, man, not a lot of Russian hookers out here in Japan. Well. Actually. Russia’s pretty close. But I haven’t heard of any, so no, not a sexy escort, a military escort to the other side of the Pacific. Or anywhere civilized, really. Ideally, it’d be MIT.”

“I don’t think I follow, Newt.”

“Yeah, that’s my bad.” Newt takes a breath in and lets it out slow. “Okay, here. As coherently as I can put this… I need to get to a laboratory outfitted to perform chemical and biological experiments, ASAP. Can I escort you to one under the guise of doing my job?”

“Are you deserting?”

“No!” Newt squeals, horrified. “No way! I just need to get back to civilization. Briefly. I’ll be back. I still have to get the funding for my next two Masters. Oh, fuck.”

“Wait, your _next two Masters_?” Becket’s leaning forward again. “As in degrees? You’ve already graduated college?”

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Newt says. “Okay, don’t tell anyone that. Don’t print that. At least not until we’ve decimated the Kaiju and K-Division’s disbanded and I’m dead. I’m serious, don’t tell anyone. I’m a highly trained weapon of war here, I could fuck you up hard. Got a gun and everything. So keep it on the dee el.”

There is silence from the backseat. Then Raleigh says, “I’ll do my best.”

“Obviously, if my plans work out and everything goes smoothly, you can totally credit saving the world from ecological disaster to me,” Newt adds. “But, like, as long as I’m in the military, I’d rather people didn’t know the exact depth of my dorkiness.”

“Got it.”

“So. Military escort for the handsome reporter man? Get me to MIT or a lab of some kind with a centrifuge and a lot of spare time? Yes?”

Reporterman Raleigh doesn’t get a chance to answer because hey, here they are, that asshole Trombley and a limping Espera.

“You okay, dude?” Newt asks Espera.

“He fell down a hill!” Trombely’s snort-laugh is perhaps the most disgusting and annoying thing in the world.

“Don’t be a dick about it,” Newt tells the guy. It’s not fair, because he’d be a dick about it if it happened in front of him, but Newt’s not feeling particularly kind right now. He glances in Becket’s direction. “You lemme know, okay?”

“Sure,” Becket tells him. It sounds like he’s smiling. “I’ll get you her number if I can. She’s pretty pricey, you know. From what she told me, though, she’s worth it.”

“Ordering prostitutes from an ex-Hustler writer, Newt?” Espera says.

Newt plasters a grin on his face. “What can I say? Pussy is as pussy does! Y’know, I think this entire Kaiju situation could be due to an insufficiency of pussy on their part.”

“Please, refrain from enlightening us,” Gottlieb says as he slides into the driver’s seat. “We are in fairly neutral territory at the moment, since we eliminated the enemy. Intel gathering is ongoing. We are shipping out to our next flight, but it’s a ways away. I can drive.”

“It’s my job, man,” Newt says. “You’re the boss. I drive. And I piss you off as we go. It’s the dynamic we’ve got.”

“Go to sleep, all of you,” Gottlieb growls. “That is an order. We need to catch up on rest in this company.”

“Why’re you okay to drive, then?” Newt asks.

“Insomnia,” Gottlieb says. He hits the gas.

“Ain’t no rest for the wicked,” Newt sings quietly. He thinks he hears someone snort at that but he can’t be sure if it’s Gottlieb or someone else. No one says anything, though, so he keeps singing. “Money don’t grow on trees. I got bills to pay, I got mouths to feed, ain’t nothing in this world for free now. I can’t slow down, I can’t hold back, though you know I wish I could. Oh no, there ain’t no rest for the wicked till we close our eyes for good.”

“Hush,” Gottlieb says.

Newt closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newt quotes _Shrek_ and _Hairspray_ in here, as well as his own German from Chapter 2 in reference to the Humvee being a Jager. He also quotes the guy that reminded me of Newt from _Generation Kill_ when he mentions the war is due to insufficient pussy.
> 
> Newt sings "Ain't No Rest for the Wicked" by Cage the Elephant.
> 
> I spent a lot of time researching medications so trust me when I say we will get an _extensive_ explanation later, even if I have to shoehorn it into the end notes of a random chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

Newt jerks awake. It takes him a moment to realize he’s awake because Reporterman Raleigh smacked him on the shoulder. The guy also has a hand over Newt’s mouth. Newt doesn’t know how to feel about this.

“You guys are headed for a new mission,” Raleigh whispers to him. The sun’s rising behind him and his face is shadowed and solemn. “I’m heading back to the States for a week to write, but I’ll be meeting up with K-Division later. Probably this same squad. Do you want to come with me?”

Newt thinks about the Kaiju Blue in his backpack. Safe in a zippered pocket. That pocket leads him to remember putting a bottle of mysterious medication in a pocket somewhere on his person. He slaps a hand to his chest and hears the rattle. He’s got to give this back to Gottlieb before he goes. The meds could be super important. He pushes Becket’s hand aside and whispers, “Do we have to go right now?”

“If you don’t want to get caught by your team asking questions? Yeah,” Becket says.

Newt bites his lip. He glances over at the driver’s side of the Humvee. Gottlieb’s not there. “Do you know where Iceman is?”

“Nope.”

“Shit. I’ve got something of his. Okay, let’s go. I’ll find someone to give it to him.” Newt pulls on his pack, leaves his night vision on his seat. Espera and Trombley are still dead to the world in the back seat of the Humvee. Surprisingly (considering how tight the space is), the two have managed to sleep without touching each other. Newt assumes it’s because Trombley is so repellant that he keeps rational humans from initiating contact, even while unconscious. 

Choi’s hunkered down by the helicopters cramming breakfast pound cake into his face when Newt and Reporterman Raleigh show up. 

“Perfect,” Newt says, jogging over. “Hey, Choi!”

“Newt? You should be asleep, buddy, you were acting crazy last night,” Choi says, brushing off crumbs so he can grip Newt in a tight hug.

“I got somewhere to be, man,” Newt says. “Escorting our lovely reporter to civilization for a week, then back in the field I go. I mean, hopefully. Actually, it’d be better if I didn’t have to come back. I’ll just try to assume the best. I’m gonna end this Kaiju war like a boss, okay?”

Choi’s staring at him. “You actually got more delusional after some shut-eye. I am amazed.”

Newt snorts and slaps his shoulder. “Hey, you know where Iceman is?”

“Not a clue.”

“That’s cool. If you—”

A stuffy, British voice Newt knows all to well says, “I am here, Geiszler.”

“Heya, sir,” Newt says with a grin. He stuffs two fingers in the pocket with the pill bottle, but pauses. Gottlieb’s got a backpack on and no sidearm. “What’s up?”

“I am coming with you,” Gottlieb says. “Both you and Mister Becket.”

“Really?” Reporterman Raleigh says. “Okay, I guess. I hope you two know what you’re doing, though, cuz—”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Newt says. 

Gottlieb’s eyes narrow. “I assure you I am not.”

“Dude, what the fuck? I don’t need a babysitter, I don’t know how many times I have to say that! Earlier was a one-off! I’m great at all-nighters! I just get kinda mouthy and I can go on for ages about shit that’s straight-up lies! Like the fact that I will pass out if I don’t sleep! Look. I don’t need you, okay?”

“Did I say I would be watching you?” Gottlieb says. The guy’s gotta be called Iceman because of his voice, because it gets Arctic all of a sudden.

“Well, no,” Newt says.

“No,” Gottlieb repeats. “I have my own work to complete. I just managed to get you legal leave from K-Division. This means you will not be penalized for what would originally have been a desertion. A thank you will suffice.”

Newt hears Choi whisper “Oh, snap” right next to him, but he’s clenching his jaw so tight he can hear the creak. “Thanks, bro.”

“A bit more formality,” Gottlieb says. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Apologies, good sir. My deepest and most humble thanks for this award of both your trust and—”

“Copter’s leaving,” Becket says.

Gottlieb lurches forward, brushing past Newt without a backward glance. “It’s sufficient for now. I shall see you in a week, Corporal Choi. Inform my squad that they are to join Captain Hansen the Younger’s team in the meantime. Do not let Trombley hold any position of responsibility over the life of another person. He is a fool and shall be treated as such until he proves himself trustworthy.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Choi says with a salute. “Good luck,” he adds with a devilishly charming grin that makes Newt’s jaw tighten even more. 

Gottlieb merely nods without looking back. “My thanks, Corporal Choi. Geiszler, move it.”

“Yeah,” Newt growls as he follows Gottlieb into the helicopter and slaps on the headset that will drown out the noise of the copter to tolerable levels. They take off seconds later and Newt winces at the swoop in his stomach before leaning back into the seat and breathing deeply. In seconds, he’s asleep again.

*

Newt wakes up when they’re still over the Pacific. Reporterman Raleigh’s sleeping next to him, head lolling on Newt’s shoulder. Gottlieb has his head in his hands. He’s awake, though. Newt taps the guy’s knee with his boot to make sure, and Gottlieb’s head snaps up, glare already fully charged and ready to detonate like Godzilla’s beam-breath thing.

“Hey,” Newt says, tapping the microphone on his headset.

“It’s on,” Gottlieb says. His voice sounds like a robot’s and it’s totally appropriate for him.

Newt nudges Raleigh’s head away. “Who’s plugged in?”

“Private line,” Gottlieb says, like it’s physically painful for him to admit they’re talking to each other without anyone else listening in.

“Got something for you, then,” Newt says. He fishes out the pills from his chest pocket and passes them over. “Sorry, they were on your side of the Humvee and I didn’t want to kick em around anymore than they already had been.”

Gottlieb takes the bottle, eyes wide. He looks up at Newt. “Thank you.”

“What’re they for, if you don’t mind me asking?” Newt says. “I’m kinda far from the Google machine. What’s Ampyra?”

“It helps,” Gottlieb says. Newt thinks he’s about to say more, but then he pops the cap off and swallows one dry, wincing slightly.

“You are playing the mysterious hero card kinda heavily, you know that?” Newt says.

“We have a decent rapport,” Gottlieb says after a moment. He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of something.

“Dude,” Newt says. “We’re nerdy best friends in this squad. You can trust me, I swear.” He smiles as winningly as he can.

Gottlieb eyes him. “Perhaps we could trade?”

“You tell a secret, I tell a secret? Sure, but you gotta tell at least one more than me. You already know I’m a certified genius and right now, that’s privileged info.”

“Fair enough. Ampyra helps speed up my gait and improves my leg strength, in addition to causing back pain, insomnia, headaches, and indigestion.”

Newt frowns. “That’s a big list of turnoffs, man. Like, medical turnoffs, not sexual ones. We’re not talking about sexual turnoffs. Um.”

Gottlieb’s mouth is twitching. It’s almost like he’s trying to smile. That’d be a little too human, though. “Your turn, Newton.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry, okay. Uh. I’m supposed to be on meds. For bipolar. Mostly mania. Depressive episodes need an outside trigger, mania comes from nowhere. I mean, so far as I can tell. But I don’t take my meds. Does that count as two secrets?”

Gottlieb shrugs. 

Newt snorts. “You are so unhelpful. It’s my turn, though. Why do you need to take Ampyra? Like, why’re your legs struggling?”

“Multiple Sclerosis,” Gottlieb says. “I have medication specifically for that, too, but I keep a tighter reign on that bottle. It’s more important.” He taps the left side pockets on his chest. 

Newt’s eyes have got to be bugging. “Are you serious right now? You have MS?”

“Yes,” Gottlieb says.

“Fuck. Dude, I’m sorry, that sucks. Friend of the family deals with that shit. She’s way older than you, though. But she doesn’t have to deal with leg fuckery. Hers is mostly eye and balance issues.”

“It affects everyone differently,” Gottlieb says. “It is your turn to tell a truth, I believe.”

Okay, so the guy doesn’t want to make a big deal of something that’s a big deal. Newt can respect that. He does the same with his bipolar thing. Some facts just exist. Don’t need to talk about them anymore, that’s fine and dandy. Newt glances around the helicopter. They’re flying over the ocean and the sun is nowhere in sight. Must be around noon. He’s been asleep for a while. He can’t think of a single thing to tell this guy.

“What do you want to know?” Newt asks.

Gottlieb raises an eyebrow. “What are your current degrees in, and what are you hoping to study in the future?”

Newt grins. “Biology, bio-chem, and music, dude. And I want to study neuroscience and electroengineering. And maybe one more, because six is a perfect number and that’s cool.”

“You want six masters degrees?” Gottlieb says, as if he can’t believe it.

“No,” Newt says. “I want PhDs in all this shit. And I want em done by the time I’m twenty-five.”

Gottlieb actually _laughs_ at that. Not even meanly, either, which is. Wow. The guy’s pretty all the time but he’s _really pretty_ when he’s laughing. All those smile lines, and his eyes crunch up. The guy’s built for laughter. It’s beautiful. Newt maybe stops breathing for a moment.

“You are ambitious,” Gottlieb says. He runs a hand over his smile to hide it.

“Yeah,” Newt says.

Gottlieb focuses on him, eyebrows sliding together. “Are you all right?”

Newt reminds himself not to tell his commanding officer that he thinks the guy’s pretty and says out loud, “Nah. I mean, yeah. My turn to ask. Um. Why’re you really coming with me?”

Gottlieb squints at him a moment, then says, “I am attempting to predict where the Kaiju will strike next.”

“What?”

“I am a mathematician, as you’ll recall?”

“Yeah?”

“I am trying to predict where these people will next commit ecological terrorism.”

“Oh,” Newt says. “That’s weird. Why do you have to follow me all the way to the States for that?”

“Space, time, and sleep,” Gottlieb says. “I need all three to do my work. And tea helps.”

Something’s not right, Newt can tell. “You never mentioned anything like this before.”

“It’s a pet project,” Gottlieb says. “I believe it’s your—”

“Nah, dude,” Newt says. “What’s the real reason?”

Gottlieb’s mouth thins. “It is your turn, Geiszler.”

“So fucking ask me something.”

Gottlieb stares at him. “What did you mean when you asked me to have a beer with you?”

Newt stares back. “I like beer. I’m German, that’s normal. Figured you’d like beer too cuz you’re German.”

“Why would you want to have a beer with me?”

Newt’s heart is pounding. In his head he tries to sing a ‘shut up’ song and can only come up with “Shut Up and Drive,” which isn’t helpful. _I got class like a ’57 Cadillac. Got all the drive but a whole lotta boom in the back_. “I wanna be buds, man.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. You’re cool. I’m cool. We’re too cool for K-Division school. We should. We should stick together.” God, the guy’s got him stuttering like a teenager. Which Newt totally isn’t, he’s twenty years old now, thank you very much. _You look like you can handle what’s under my hood. You keep saying that you will; boy, I wish you would_.

“That’s all?”

In Newt’s mind, Rihanna sings, _So if you feel me let me know, know, know; come on now, what you waiting for, for, for…_ “Yes, damn, dude!” 

Gottlieb settles back. “I see. Very well. I agree to friendship, though on a trial basis. You are… frustrating.”

“Wait, what, really? Trial friendship?” _Baby you got the keys, now shut up and drive_. Newt blinks his mind back on track. “Sure! Yeah! That’s fine by me! So, uh. Why’re you coming with me? For realsies.”

Gottlieb tips his chin up and stares at the roof of the helicopter. “This is your last question, Gesizler. Wouldn’t you rather know why people choose to call me ‘Iceman’?”

Fuck, the guy can read him like a picture book. “How do you know it’s my last question?”

“Because I’m saying it is,” Gottlieb says.

“Uh. Fine. The realsies reason, I guess. I’m sticking to it. Go.”

“MS flare up,” Gottlieb says. “I’m going on a course of corticosteroids. Four days. It’s deemed most effective if administered intravenously and I distrust the medical conditions in K-Division field labs.”

“Wait, seriously?”

Gottlieb finally looks down at him. “Yes. Just as I told you when I said I had MS. I am not going to lie about medical issues.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

Gottlieb closes his eyes. He looks very, very old all of a sudden. “I am not taking adequate care of myself.”

“We all slip, man,” Newt says. “You saw me earlier today. When it was dark. I was a mess. K-Division’s not exactly a healthy place.”

“No,” Gottlieb says quietly. “Perhaps Father was right.”

“What?”

Gottlieb shrugs. “I was told not to join this division. And not to contribute my time, research, and efforts into stopping Kaiju.”

“Your dad told you that?”

“Yes.”

“What a dick. What were you gonna do instead?”

Gottlieb straightens up slowly. His shoulders shift into rigid alignment, his hands settle strongly on his knees. It’s a manly power stance. “I believe our ‘Truth or Dare’ session has ended.”

“We can just be two friends chatting,” Newt says. “Nothing stopping us. Becket’s out, you said no one’s listening. Technically, we’re on science and medical leave. We can chat. It’s allowed.”

“Any conversation about my family life is going to be depressing, Newton,” Gottlieb says.

“Did I say I wanted to be cheered up or something? I don’t care.”

“I do.”

Newt throws his hands up. “Whatever. We’re gonna keep talking and being science friends and it’s gonna be great. And I’ll get the Iceman story out of you someday, dude.”

Gottlieb actually laughs at that. Just once, though. “We shall see.”

“Fuckin right we will,” Newt growls, settling back in his seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strangely, the thing I chose not to research was the official name for "Godzilla’s beam-breath thing." It would have taken two seconds. It would have taken less time than writing this note. Newt would definitely care enough to know. Don't hate me for this slip; I like my own words for it.
> 
> Newt's straight up bipolar, which is different from manic-depressive, but maybe it's not either of these but something stranger. I'm sorry if I mislabeled it. Whatever the guy has, it's a mental condition, which means there's one hell of a spectrum. He and Hermann definitely have that in common.
> 
> Multiple Sclerosis damages the brain and central nervous system. It affects people very, very differently, depending on where damaging lesions occur (which isn't in a uniform location). The National MS Society (NMSS) website was utilized extensively for researching medications that Hermann could use to treat his condition. I ultimately decided he's on a daily course of Gilenya (fingolimod), which reduces MS relapses and brain lesion activity, and delays accumulation of physical disability. He's taking Ampyra (dalfampridine) to speed up his walking/gait and improve his leg strength. Both are in pill form so he can take them when he travels. I bet he has very intricate time tables based on where he is in the world. (He's twenty-oneish in this AU, which is super duper young for an MS diagnosis, but shh. Just roll with it. And hey, it means he has a better chance of having a good outcome because they caught it this early.)
> 
> (Quiet side-note about MS medications: There's one called Tecfidera (in the US—dimethyl fumarate) that contains a compound used in higher doses to treat acute flare-ups of psoriasis in Germany. Ultimately, I decided it wasn't Hermann's medication because the instructions for taking it were more complicated but the German thing made me take note because it was an interesting overlap. This was a weird thing to nerd about.)
> 
> I made up Newt's doctorates, just like I made up Hermann's. I have no clue what the canon ones are, or even fandom-accepted canon ones. Six is a perfect number because it is the sum of its divisors (excluding itself). Six can be divided into one and six, and two and three. One plus two plus three is six. There aren't a lot of perfect numbers. I think the next one after six is twenty-eight, and then it jumps to 496. Maybe Newt is seducing Hermann with obscure math.
> 
> Newt thinks the lyrics to "Shut Up and Drive" by Rihanna. It's right there in the text but I'm keeping track of the songs down here so I thought I'd mention it for posterity.
> 
> All the corticosteroid treatments explored on the NMSS site were declared more effective if they were administered intravenously. There are also crazy side-effects to having this many drugs pumped into your system. The corticosteroid regimen lasts four days, and it's a treatment performed to manage acute MS flare-ups, close the damaged blood-brain barrier, and reduce inflammation in the body's central nervous system. Basically, Hermann's been fucking up his body too much and needs to try to repair it with drugs. This is not super healthy. All the meds he's taking for MS have serious side-effects that were shockingly strange and unnerving. I feel super bad for my mom's friend who has MS. It's not an easy thing to live with or manage, and Hermann's not dealing with things too well. That's what I wanted this whole section to convey, pretty much. That, and male nerd bonding.


	10. Chapter 10

They end up in Berkeley because it’s the best science lab they can get to while still being pretty close to the Pacific Ocean. They have to ship out again in a week, after all. Gottlieb vanishes to visit a hospital nearby. Newt’s led around the campus until they find him a lab worthy of his talents.

“Hey,” he asks the woman showing him around, “can you set my superior officer up in here with me?”

“Sorry?” she says.

“Gottlieb. He came in with me and Becket. Skinny guy, bitchy face, very cheekboney. Can you set him up in here?”

She gives him a weird look. “Dr. Gottlieb will need to rest—”

“Yeah,” Newt says patiently, “but I know he won’t, so just send him here when he demands to be taken to his workspace. I dunno if you have another spot to put him, but here’s cool.” Newt has some good explanations and reasons for why he’d want Gottlieb in here with him. Keep an eye on the guy right after some major medical work, bouncing ideas off of him, making sure he’s not left behind when they go back in the field. They’re logical justifications. He doesn’t like justifying himself, though (and honestly, he came up with all the reasons right _after_ he asked if he could share a room), so he just smiles at the woman and waits for her answer.

She nods after a moment. “Sure, Dr. Geiszler.”

“Oh god, don’t,” Newt says. “Just Newt. Dr. Geiszler makes me feel responsible and old. You’re probably older than I am.”

She smiles at him. “Grad student. I’m twenty-three.”

Newt whines. “Aw, man, I’m always gonna be too young, right up until I die.”

“I’ll send him.”

Newt fumbles to get his Kaiju Blue sample out of his bag the minute she’s gone. He’s wearing his uniform in a lab setting and that’s a weird intersection of worlds if he’s ever experienced one. He probably smells like hell. It’s been a week since he had a decent shower. A week without eight straight hours of uninterrupted sleep. Maybe he can use the chemical shower later. How mad would the university be about that? How much can Newt get away with by flashing his K-Division ID?

He pulls the limp, slightly gooey bag of sand and sludge out of his backpack and stares at it. 

It is so very, very blue.

Newt had no idea it would be this blue. It almost glows. Maybe there’s something phosphorescent in it…

*

Gottlieb shows up later. Newt’s not sure how much later because he’s been preparing slides and running chemical breakdowns and researching what this shit does to the environment. The research team with K-Division that Gottlieb mentioned already—K-Science, what a dull fucking name—has a lot of information, but breaking down those firewalls takes time. His eyes are burning. His back feels like he has begun growing a permanent hump. He manages to twist enough to survey his sergeant, though.

The guy seems pretty steady on his feet, Newt notices. He stands at parade rest to survey the lab.

“Do you know why they sent me to share a lab with you, Geiszler?” Gottlieb says. It sounds like a real question. Maybe Newt’s little secret crush is still safe. Maybe he still has a chance at corralling this guy into being his BFF.

“Nosir,” Newt shoots off as he fires up the centrifuge for the third time. This centrifuge is his new favorite thing in the world. Even Gottlieb has to come in second.

“Hm,” Gottlieb says. It’s that sound that means, “Newt, you’re full of shit,” but Newt just snickers and turns the centrifuge’s speed up. It sounds like he’s making a smoothie. Oh god, a smoothie.

“I’m hungry,” Newt says over the whine of machinery. 

Gottlieb’s smile is faint and condescending. “Do you have any money?”

Newt automatically slaps his hip pockets, then his ass pockets. “Nope.”

“Then I will buy,” Gottlieb says. “On K-Division’s dime, of course.”

“Yes!” Newt says, pumping his fists in the air. “Get takeout, okay? I don’t wanna leave.”

“Neither do I,” Gottlieb says. “After all, I just got here. You pick the food. Do you think they have chalkboards?”

“Probably. Whiteboards, actually. Chalk’s too dusty and shit. The university probably chucked em all.”

“Hm.”

Newt darts over to a computer and taps into Yelp for close Chinese restaurant menus. “Look, you can ask the folks around here.”

“No one is here, Newton.”

Newt looks up. Then he looks at the little digital clock on the computer screen. “Holy shit, it’s eleven pm already?”

“Yes.”

“No wonder I’m fuckin starving! God, I hope somewhere’s open late…” He clicks through frantically. “Okay, Chau’s! That cool? It’s Szechuan.”

“Fine, fine,” Gottlieb says. “Make sure to get at least one plain rice. I feel a bit nauseous after treatment, usually. And something with spinach, fish, and mushrooms, please.”

“That’s a weird combo,” Newt says, scanning the menu. “Do they need to be all together?”

“No. I require potassium, though. It is advised for my course of medication.”

“Dude, your treatment is super weird. Lemme know if I need to be worried, kay?”

“I will,” Gottlieb says. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“You can’t bring chalkboards in here, man!” Newt calls out, but the lab door closes on his words and he shrugs, pulls down the wall phone, and dials the number.

*

Newt’s already eating when Gottlieb returns with pilfered whiteboard markers and a sour expression. The guy barely eats anything as he starts writing on the boards. He bounces between food and work for a while. Newt just eats. It’s the first meal he’s had that was not prepackaged and good God damn he is enjoying it. He hums happily into his fried rice and slurps down his noodles with gusto. There’re almost no leftovers when he’s finished. Gottlieb’s still got a ways to go on his cartons, but Newt ignores him to start figuring out Kaiju Blue compounds and chemical strings…

Newt wakes up with his head resting on his hands. He can hear Gottlieb grumbling quietly to himself. He stretches and checks the computer clock. It’s ten in the morning.

“How time flies,” Newt croaks, and goes to make coffee.

That’s more or less how their week of research runs. Newt orders them food at meal times, Gottlieb barely eats, and Newt passes out on the nearest flat surface around six in the morning. They have a week to work and they have no time to waste sleeping. There are no windows. Time doesn’t matter. It doesn’t really exist, except on that little digital clock. Gottlieb is a good time marker too, because he goes for his corticosteroid treatment, without prompting or fail, at very specific times. After the second treatment, he’s way hungrier. More demanding about meals, too. It’s not so bad. Newt loves a good argument. They spend over an hour fighting over whether to order Greek or Italian food, and then it morphs into an argument about whether Greek food is the basis for Italian food anyway (centered on how the Romans absorbed all the cultures they conquered, particularly the Greeks). Newt’s pretty sure he wins the argument that Rome was a dirty Greek-food thief, but Gottlieb doesn’t look defeated, so the guy probably thinks he won as well.

They do have a hotel room. Actually, each of them probably has his own hotel room. Neither one of them are quite sure where that hotel would be, though. Newt doesn’t bring it up and neither does Gottlieb. Not like they’d sleep there, but a shower would be nice. More for the sensation than anything else, Newt will admit. They’re used to how they smell by now. It’s probably vile but neither of them can tell, so what does it matter?

Then, at some point in that endless string of hours, right before Gottlieb’s third medical appointment, Newt’s sitting there in just a wifebeater, his uniform pants, and a plastic apron, feeling like Walter White, trying to see if diluting Kaiju Blue with various substances affects its toxicity. Gottlieb stands behind him, muttering over his shoulder that this is unprecedented research. Apparently, none of those K-Division scientists thought about trying this. There are about five beakers going, with neon index cards in front of them saying what has been added to each sample. Newt is adding drips of highly concentrated Dawn to pure Kaiju Blue when something on the lab table explodes.

Newt has goggles on over his glasses and his mouth was closed. He’s probably fine. He spins and sees Gottlieb, white-faced, with Blue spreading across his face and uniform, eyes tightly shut.

“Fuck,” Newt says, and grabs the guy’s arm. “Chemical shower, man, let’s go. No, don’t open your eyes if you don’t want to, I can lead.”

He slaps the button on the shower and starts yanking off his pants and apron and goggles until he’s down to underwear and shirt and glasses (which are hard to see out of through the water spray). Gottlieb isn’t moving, though, so Newt pulls his jacket off for him and turns him so he’s facing into the spray.

“Stay there,” Newt says, scrubbing at his own arms and face. The apron Newt was wearing actually looks like it’s being eaten through. “Oh shit. Do you hurt anywhere?”

“No,” Gottlieb says tightly.

“Did it get in any of your face holes?”

Gottlieb twists his head out of the deluge and actually pops open his eyes and glares at him for that one. “No, Geiszler, I am fine.” His mouth drops open a little bit and he squints at Newt. “Wait. Are you tattooed?”

Newt looks down. “Um, yeah. Little bit. Lotta bit.”

Gottlieb wipes water out of his eyes. “What are those?”

“Uh, kinda just random monsters? Godzilla’s rivals, a couple Lovecraftian things, some shit from Uzumaki and some other horror manga. There’s a manticore in there and a chimera, here—”

“You are twenty?”

Newt shifts from foot to foot. “Yeah?”

“How are you this… extensively decorated?”

Newt’s got tattoos from his knees to his shoulders, as far as Gottlieb can see. He’s actually left spaces here and there. He’s not symmetrical. He doesn’t have any tattoos on his ass yet, or the front of his torso (he’s thinking about it, though). Both his thighs were the first places he picked to get ink, and then his back, and he connected the two designs with a basilisk twisting around his left hip. He’s still planning a chestplate and full sleeves, but Newt’s got some level of patience. He was three weeks from boot camp the last time he got a tat. It’s hard to heal and keep things clean in a sweaty, manly environment of spirit-crushing. Also, Newt didn’t want any of his tattoos to be obvious, just in case. The United States army (from what Newt’s heard) doesn’t want weird-looking tattoos in its image, so Newt figured that K-Division was the same. Hanging out with Choi and his wrist and neck tats proved that K-Division was more lenient, but that’s okay. Newt can wait till he gets home to coat his arms and the front of his body. He’s young, as Gottlieb was _so kind_ to point out; the tattoos will come.

Honestly, Newt didn’t think too deeply about that impulse to get huge, colorful tattoos so early in his life. He doesn’t regret them or anything, but it’s probably best not to question why he decided to go so deeply into body art so fast. Newt has theories about himself, of course. Looking older than he is, looking tougher, shouting to the world via monster tats that he’s an intellectual badass (read: nerd of the highest caliber), proclaiming that he’s unashamed of who he is…

All Newt tells Gottlieb, though, is, “It felt like it was time to put some visible mileage on me, and I’ve always had one hell of a soft spot for monsters. Let’s see how your uniform did against all that Kaiju Blue, dude.”

It’s discolored where the Blue hit it but that’s all, and on a uniform already built for camouflage, a weird color palette isn’t too bad.

“Disgusting,” Gottlieb says. “Which was the substance that elicited such a result?”

“I’ll have to check security tapes, probably. I took notes. Oh man, results!”

“There are security tapes?” Gottlieb says with a faint frown.

“Yep,” Newt says. “Spies are everywhere.” He waggles his eyebrows, peering over the rim of his glasses.

Gottlieb sniffs. “A foolish sentiment. Paranoid.”

“A paranoid is simply someone in possession of all the facts,” Newt says primly. “I’m gonna see if they have a place to dry clothes and shit. This is the only uniform I've got. Give me anything you want me to dry.” Newt pauses for a moment. “You know, I think that was the first time I’ve taken a real shower since we shipped out for reals.”

“That was _not_ a real shower,” Gottlieb tells him. “That was a lab emergency, wherein—” He stops.

“Oh my God,” Newt says, taking in Gottlieb’s sudden expression of dawning horror. “What happened? Are you blind? Did I blind my best friend? I mean, did I blind my superior officer? Oh shit, oh _Gott in Himmel_ —”

“No,” Gottlieb says. His voice is far away. “I just… I remembered. I have to call my doctor. Excuse me.”

He leaves. Newt stares after him, shrugs, and goes to find the public showers that the athletic department is sure to have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, Hannibal Chau reference! It's not the same restaurant (the boys aren't in Brooklyn) but no way I was passing up the opportunity to reference that guy.
> 
> The knowledge I've gleaned from the ever-helpful MS website notes that corticosteroids have a lot of side-effects. It's why they're kind of a patch-it-up treatment and not a long-term course. People on corticosteroid treatments need a low-salt, high-potassium diet, though they may initially feel nauseous. From my notes: "Side effects that may go away as your body adjusts to the medication and do not require medical attention unless they continue or are bothersome: increased appetite; indigestion; nervousness or restlessness; trouble sleeping; headache; increased sweating; unusual increase in hair growth on body or face." I imagine Hermann's suffering from at least a few of these. I don't even know what I'd write about the hair thing, so not that, but some of the other ones probably. And a couple other side-effects that'll be addressed later.
> 
> My science is weak so this is about as detailed as I'll get into methodology.
> 
> Newt, shockingly, doesn't sing this chapter! He does quote the disgusting, violent, and marvelous comic book series _Transmetropolitan_ , though, when he mentions that paranoids have all the facts. The monsters Newt refers to specifically are from _Godzilla_ , H. P. Lovecraft's _Cthulu_ mythos, the only horror manga I've ever read ( _Uzumaki_ ; it's about evil spirals and there's no specific monster but a lot of great, freaky art), and Greek mythology. Newt's widely-read and going with a monster theme still lends coherence to his tats, but I imagine he'd be super excited about monsters from all around the world. Maybe he'll be willing to talk about his tattoos more later.
> 
> Newt references _Breaking Bad_ briefly and says "God in heaven" at the end there in German.
> 
> I'm going out of the country until the beginning of July but I have another chapter that I'll try to put up before I go, and I'll get on this AU again once I'm back cuz it's the most fun thing I'm writing at the moment. Thanks to you folks who like this and told me so! Thanks to you who like it and haven't told me! You're all great!


	11. Chapter 11

Newt lets the hot water wash over him and scrubs until he knows the water’s turning grey with dirt. His hands have been the only clean part of him since he started handling Kaiju Blue on the regular; it’s good to finally wash everything else clean.

“I want mi-i-i-i-i-i-i-ine if you take me home, c’mon take me home,” Newt sings because he’s the only one there and bathroom acoustics must be exploited. “I want mi-i-i-i-i-i-i-ine if you take off all your clothes, come on, take em off. Cuz I like you so much better when you’re naked! I—”

“Doctor Newton Geiszler?” someone says, and Newt screams because _oh shit, British accent, is it Gottlieb_?

“Who’s that?” Newt yells. He wishes for 20/20 vision because it’s all just blurs right now, but he still whips his head this way and that and squints at the dim tile. There is a huge, dark man-shape that’s too big to be Gottlieb, but that means there’s a stranger seeing him in the buff.

“I am Lieutenant Colonel Pentecost with K-Division,” the man-shape says.

Newt sighs and finishes scrubbing out his hair, then slaps the shower off. “Awesome. Hi, sir. Apologies for not saluting, and also for being naked. And singing about it. Can you find my towel? It’s grey and blends in with all this gross bathroom tile and I didn’t think this through.” Newt shuffles towards the low bench where he thinks he plopped his showering materials, reaching in front of him like he’s feeling his way through a dark room. The giant man-shape (Pentecost) presses the towel’s itchiness into his hands without comment.

“Can you see my glasses, too?” Newt asks. 

“Ah. Yes,” Pentecost says. Those are also placed carefully in Newt’s free hand. When he puts them on, as Newt half-expected, they’re smudged. This Pentecost guy clearly doesn’t rely on spectacles. He is huge and wow attractive, in a chiseled and unattainable way. Like dating the David, or the Parthenon. Pentecost, the eighth wonder of the world. Look but don’t touch.

“Thank you, sir,” Newt remembers after a long moment of staring into the man’s eyes.

Pentecost inclines his head. “You’re welcome. Go ahead and get dressed.”

“Uh.” Newt dries himself off fast so he can wrap his towel around his waist, then waves Pentecost to follow him. “I kinda soaked everything I had in an emergency lab shower, so it’s all in the laundry room, drying out, so. Uh. Come on, I guess?”

He thinks Pentecost is annoyed but the guy could clean out Vegas with that poker face, so it’s hard to tell. “Do you mind if we talk business at the same time? I’m on a tight schedule.”

“Oh yeah, no, it’s totally cool,” Newt says. “Go ahead.”

“You are a scientist.”

“Yeah. Specialties in bio and biochem but I dabbled in chem itself a bit. Learned everything I know about Bunsen burners there. And then I did some music degree that was so self-indulgent but so, so worth it. Polymath, yanno.”

“Mmm. You are aware that Sergeant Gottlieb is a member of the academic elite, much like yourself, correct?”

Newt snorts. “I dunno if he’d agree that he’s ‘like me,’ but yeah, the guy told me he’s into math and physics. The religion of the scientific world. I deal with the tangible and he deals with the esoteric, the theoretical.” 

Pentecost stands at perfect parade rest and cocks his head to the side. “I would like to add the two of you to the research branch of K-Division, K-Science.”

Newt frowns. “No thanks.” He has to slam into the door of the laundry room with his hip to get it to open. 

Pentecost’s eyes narrow. “Oh? May I ask why not?”

According to the little dial, he’s got a little over five more minutes on his clothes, so he leans on an empty washer and gives Pentecost his full attention. “I signed up with the combat team for a reason, sir,” Newt says. “I’ve spent most of my adolescence in a lab doing lab things. It’s super important work, working with Kaiju Blue, and that’s why I’m doing it now, obviously, but I wanna be in the field. I think it’s more valuable. I went through training and everything. Didn’t tell anybody except Iceman about all my doctorates.” In his head, Newt thinks _FUCK_ very clearly, but maybe Pentecost won’t notice the fact that Newt just referred to his superior officer by a nickname that Newt doesn’t even fully understand.

It was a small hope. “Iceman?”

“Uh, sorry, Gottlieb.”

“ _Doctor_ Gottlieb shares your disinterest in K-Science division,” Pentecost says after a moment. “He, too, took a field assignment, despite the limitations he faces. You’re aware?”

“Of the MS? Yeah. So? He’s a great sergeant, sir. Absolutely top-notch at keeping control and keeping his cool and shutting me up when I start rambling or I’ve been singing the chorus for too long when I don’t know all the lyrics. Well, he actually doesn’t like me singing at all, but—”

“I’d like you to persuade him to stay and collaborate with K-Science,” Pentecost interrupts. “His mathematical models and coding skills are second to none. He can map the progress of Kaiju Blue, its origin point, and predict the next target well in advance. It’s his work that got you to the Kaiju Blue dump in Japan so quickly, though obviously his modeling needs more work if it is to be truly effective.”

Newt swallows hard. “No thanks, as I already said. I can’t make him do anything, anyway.”

Pentecost sighs deeply. “It is not a request, Doctor Geiszler. It is an order. Doctor Gottlieb is far too valuable to waste in the field, his father is exploiting his son’s medical condition to sway the opinions of national representatives, and the war on Kaiju will not be won by guns and bombs. It will be won because their attacks can be neutralized even after the fact. Preemptive strikes help no one. We haven’t had a successful raid on the Kaiju before a Kaiju Blue dump yet; all we’ve done is try to clean up a mess that’s more toxic than anything we’ve encountered so far. We know what it’s made of but we don’t know how to make it go away, or how to cure the people who have been touched by its presence.”

“I don’t—” The buzzer on Newt’s dryer goes off. He makes a few apologetic noises and drags his gear out. Everything’s hot, but whatever. He tugs his underwear up beneath his towel, then pulls everything else on and rubs his hair vigorously with the last dry portion of the towel. Pentecost is still standing, waiting, radiating effortless perfection when Newt emerges.

“Look,” Newt says, “I don’t wanna get stuck in the lab. I have hopes and dreams. Sad ones, kinda, but they’re still my dreams. More knowledge is awesome and I want it but I also want to be a rockstar.”

Pentecost’s eyebrow rises. “A rockstar?”

“Mick Jagger-level,” Newt says.

“Hence the…singing?”

Newt can feel himself start to blush. “Not really in a musical way, no. You heard me, I’m not— More just… attitude, style, power, that kinda stuff. Not in a musical way. I can rock a bass but no. A rockstar in a brains way. But to the point where people are super impressed when they see me giving speeches and shit on TV.”

“You want a lecture show?”

“No,” Newt says, and then stops. 

He’s never articulated his dreams to another person before. It feels weird to do this with Pentecost. It didn’t feel weird when he explained how many doctorates he wanted to his dad and his uncle. It wouldn’t feel weird to describe being a rockstar nerd to Gottlieb, Newt’s pretty sure, but right now he feels uncomfortable. His dreams seem small and odd, much like himself. Pentecost is a god, a pillar, a man who knows what he wants and can articulate it clearly. Next to him, Newt doesn’t feel cut out for K-Division. Hell, Newt doesn’t feel cut out for the human race.

“Can you _attempt_ to convince Doctor Gottlieb to remain with K-Science?” Pentecost says, as Newt is clearly done explaining himself.

Newt shrugs. “I dunno know. He’s pretty stubborn.”

“His health is suffering, Doctor Geiszler. You must see that. He is here, after all, taking a course of medication that no one would willingly subject themselves to. Prednisone is a last-resort drug. It means he has stepped beyond what his body could handle and he needs to reign in that deterioration. It is not for regular use.”

Newt pushes his glasses up his nose. “Yeah. I can see that, from what he told me. Why don’t you talk to him, though?”

“I know a bit too much about him,” Pentecost says. “He thinks I am attempting to manipulate him, no matter what I say.”

Well, _that_ deserves further inquiry later. “You are, though, right? Trying to manipulate him, I mean.”

Pentecost shakes his head, but he doesn’t seem to be disagreeing. He speaks slowly, as if he’s thinking of the words as he says them. “It is in his best interests to utilize his mind rather than his body. It is how he can best serve in this war against the Kaiju.”

Newt has to take a deep breath and let it out before he can trust himself to speak. “Yanno, I think it’s up to _Sergeant Gottlieb_ to decide what he wants to do with himself. Not you, and not K-Division or K-Science or K-Paratroopers or whatever else you have hiding in the K part of the alphabet. It’s his health. He can manage it. He _is_ managing it, as I already told you, cuz he’s kicking ass at his job. Okay, I have pants on now and I’m gonna go.”

Newt almost forgets to salute Pentecost but turns at the door of the laundry and waves a hand vaguely at him. Pentecost watches him go without any sign that he saw the gesture.  


The lab’s empty when Newt returns. There’s still the whole mess of Kaiju Blue and shattered glass he left behind, though, so Newt starts cleaning it up. Kaiju Blue hasn’t eaten through the table or metal or anything, which is pretty neat. It just went after fabric, maybe? Organics? Carbon-based stuff? Newt doesn’t have time to figure out the chemical makeup of all the lab materials that _haven’t_ suffered acid damage, though, so he starts poring through his notes, trying to figure out which substance was in the magic beaker. He isn’t even sure which beaker it was, which makes the quest that much more difficult, but whatever. He’s got to start somewhere. He calls security as he flicks through the printer paper he’s using instead of a notebook.

“Hey, it’s Geiszler with K-Division, wondering if I can take a look at the tapes for this room? I want to check something.”

*

“Geiszler!”

Newt jerks upright. “ ‘essir!” He coughs. His mouth is super-duper dry and he’s missing his glasses and his body feels very, very heavy. He was also definitely dreaming something about Godzilla again.

“Are you all right?” Gottlieb asks him in a much kinder tone. Newt must look like hell for Iceman to be talking to him like this.

“Yeah, sure,” Newt says, feeling his immediate vicinity until he hits his glasses. When he pulls them on, he sees that Gottlieb’s wearing a different uniform. It fits even worse than the last one. The pants on this one are too big in the waist and too short in the leg, and his arms don’t even make an effort to fill out the uniform’s sleeves. Newt can’t stifle a snort. “Uh, you okay? You changed, and not for the better.”

Gottlieb’s mouth is so flat and sharp, it could be used to draw up architecture plans. “I am fine. I forgot that corticosteroids leave me more susceptible to disease as they lower resistance to infection. Being exposed to Kaiju Blue is inadvisable. I required a quarantine and a physical, in addition to my third dose.”

“Look at you, being all responsible and shit!” Newt says, holding up a hand for a high-five. 

Gottlieb stares at the hand like he’s never seen one before. “I am typically a responsible person, Gesizler.”

“Oh, yeah, totally,” Newt says quickly. “I just, yanno. Um. You’re doing better than me, takin care of yourself. A-plus work there, keep it up.”

“Did something happen while I was gone?”

“I took a real-person shower.”

“Other than that?” 

Newt wonders how people know when he’s lying by omission. There’s got to be something wrong with his face that just gives him away. “Uh, a dude came by who wanted us to work in K-Science. Like, he hardcore wanted us, and not just for our hot bods.”

Gottlieb’s eyes narrow. “Was is Lieutenant Colonel Pentecost?”

“Uhhhh yeah. You know him?”

“First Lieutenant Mori is his daughter, if you will recall meeting her briefly in Japan. My father and the Lieutenant Colonel both worked together initially on the K program. I have known him since the start of this war.”

“Who’s your dad?” Newt asks.

He thought he’d seen the tightest line Gottlieb could get out of those lips but boy howdy was Newt wrong. The guy looks like he’s about to bite through his own face for a moment.

“He is a civilian now,” Gottlieb finally says. “Originally, he made it to the rank of general in K-Division.”

“Wait, he’s not with K-Division anymore?” Newt says.

“No.”

“I thought he was pulling strings and shit for you, dude! Damn.”

“No,” Gottlieb says, turning to his whiteboards. “I was only able to join K-Division after my father left.”

“What? Why?”

“He dislikes the idea of me being physically involved in conflict. He believes I am putting others at risk when I take on such responsibility.”

“…How did you make caring about your well-being sound like a dick move?”

“It was, as you say, a dick move,” Gottlieb snaps. “I passed all requirements for Britain’s standard military but received my diagnosis three months into my tour of Afghanistan. He pulled me out of the army within a day and I was on a cargo plane home within hours. Without any say in the matter, I might add. He blocked my progress in K-Division from within repeatedly, and has taken to doing so from without now that he has chosen a path of, of patience to end this war with the Kaiju. Passive-aggressive arsehole, though and through.” Gottlieb starts writing on the board. His markers squeak horribly until he stops pressing on them so hard. He mutters a few more insults that Newt can’t hear (some vaguely German). 

“Hey,” Newt says. Gottlieb glares over his shoulder. “I heard on the grapevine that you had two successful tours, in Afghanistan and Iraq, and you got your leg thing from crashing a plane you designed. The plane crashed because of mechanical issues, too, not anything you did wrong. So I don’t think his sabotage is working so well, at least among us lower-ranking losers. You have mad badass cred.”

Gottlieb almost smiles at that. It’s a close thing. His eyes crinkle at the corners and his mouth twitches, but it’s all pulled back in quickly and Gottlieb merely nods. “Ridiculous rumors, all of them. I would not be allowed to pilot anything. But thank you, Geiszler.”

“C’mon, man. Call me Newton if nothing else. Give in a little.”

“Not in a professional setting.”

“Yeah, okay,” Newt agrees. “We’re not professional when we’re in a lab, though, right? Cuz we’re not really scientists. We’re K-Division! Right?”

“Correct,” Gottlieb tells him. He turns back to his work but Newt catches the very tail end of that grin. Finally, he made it happen. Newt returns to stop-starting the video feed to before and after the explosion, whistling. It’s hard to read the little cards on the screen. He’s figuring out how to blow a screenshot of the footage up in Photoshop when he falls asleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newt sings "I Like You So Much Better When You’re Naked" by Ida Maria, and I like to think he whistles some Andrew Bird stuff at the end there.
> 
> Hermann wouldn't be allowed to pilot because one of the side-effects of his medication affects his color perception and eyesight. It felt a bit too personal to include, since I really doubt he'd divulge any more information than he had to, but that's a thing.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermann’s POV for this chapter! Because fuck this, we need some of his perspective on life and he’s sure as shit not going to tell Newt anything cool or personal anytime soon.

The lab space they have been allotted is… small. Sufficient, as their brands of science and math require little space, but still much smaller than it should be. Hermann’s whiteboards are mere feet away from Newton’s chemicals and beakers and Kaiju Blue samples. In all honesty, it is an unsafe workspace, particularly as Hermann’s immune system is compromised. Ventilation is nonexistent except when Newton turns on the fume hood fans. The fluorescent lights have already caused Hermann two migraines. The kettle where Hermann makes his tea shuts off every three minutes and forty seconds, regardless of how hot the water is at the time. Hermann has taped over the little window in the room’s only exterior door because students kept peering at the two of them.

Admittedly, this was most likely because they yell a great deal. They argue over food menus, Newton’s tendency to use one of his allotted computers solely for Pandora or Spotify, Newton’s singing (Why will he not stop? He isn’t a good singer, and he seems to know it and revel in it.), Hermann’s squeaking markers (Hermann knows Newton would have even louder complaints if Hermann had gotten his way about the chalkboards), what to do with all of their leftovers, the fact that Hermann isn’t eating all of his meals so they have to _deal_ with all of these leftovers, and so on. They could join Messers Barnum and Bailey as a clown act; a hatchet-faced man in ill-fitting combat gear roaring at the tattooed imp with a tendency to wear lab-inappropriate attire. Particularly when said attire becomes drenched and transparent in emergency chemical showers.

Hermann had not realized that Newton was so covered in monsters. There must be a story behind that but Hermann isn’t sure how to ask. It is too personal. Then again, Newton seems determined to get personal. Playing their own version of Twenty Questions on the helicopter had proven as much. Once again, Hermann is unsure of what protocol should be when talking to Newton Geiszler. Hermann is 98.6% sure the man does not know Hermann’s first name, nor does he realize that Hermann has one, and yet he keeps referring to the two of them as ‘best friends.’ Hermann has never had a best friend. He hardly considers himself on a level worthy of friendship with Mako Mori, who is three years his junior and already so far in the ranks. She is more an object of his respect and esteem, and he is someone with minimal advice to give to someone so competent. Frankly, Hermann has considered himself friendless for quite some time, without any particular self-pity attached to such a label. He simply does not care to keep people around him. Newton, however, seems dedicated to ingratiating himself with Hermann, though he also seems to want to piss Hermann off at the same time, for reasons only God must know. Sometimes Hermann thinks Newton blushes around him, which is. Preposterous. Unlikely. And yet the man will say something and then turn a rather ugly shade of red and start talking loud and fast until Hermann gets him back on track.

Hermann is amassing quite a collection of observations about Newton. Perhaps he could write some kind of ‘How to Work with Such a Strange Person’ pamphlet.

Newton is currently emitting the odd, high-pitched snore that occurs when his glasses are crushing one of his nostrils. His computer is cycling through a screensaver of intertwining pipes. It is blissfully quiet in the lab at times like these. The snoring is regular and soft enough that Hermann can tune it out without much trouble. He writes more delicately on the board, as any marker squeaks will immediately waken Newton. He also steals one of Newton’s computers and sets it running his algorithm to predict the ten most likely places for the Kaiju to hit next.

There has already been another Kaiju attack since Newton and Hermann left Bravo company. It was all the way up in Alaska, so Hermann is fairly sure that his team did not mobilize for that particular battle. They were in the Philippines last Hermann knew, scouting around Manila. K-Division is most commonly divided into sectors. There were more sectors once, before Hermann’s father got involved in shutting them down and recruitment numbers plummeted, but even now there is an invisible line between the Americas and Eurasia, between the Southern hemisphere and the Northern one. Australia is its own entity, really. Recruits come from all around the world, but Australia has its own vigilantes patrolling the Great Barrier Reef these days.

Hermann sets the computer to crunch numbers and calculate probabilities that have been refined with this newest ecological tragedy, and then returns to working on improving the algorithm in longhand. There is literally no one else in the world capable of understanding all of the factors that contribute to this equation. Hermann knows that he hasn’t even fully worked out all of the details. It’s an economist’s Everest, really. In the early 2000s and 2010s there was a series of books that popularized practical economics. Those books, read when he was eight and bored out of his mind in school, spurred his interest in creating equations that would have practical uses in the real world. He sent an unsigned letter to each of the authors, thanking them for their work. He surpassed their economic modeling techniques long ago, but still. His ideas did not spring from a void, but from the work of others before him, and he is willing to acknowledge that fact.

Hermann has not slept longer than three-hour stretches in over two weeks. He is aware that it is unhealthy, and is most likely affecting the quality of his work. Every medication he takes has the effect of making him restless and insomniac, however, and even before his diagnosis he had trouble sleeping. Nonetheless, he may need to sit down soon.

He has not informed Newton that they are in possession of a couch.

Behind the floor-length, Hermann-high whiteboards is a couch. It is absolutely falling apart, with strained seams and many worn patches with ragged threads pulling loose, but Hermann has slept in much worse situations now. Five years ago, he would not have dreamed of sleeping anywhere but a starched bed. Now? He has slept in dirt and mud and bushes and grass and once, memorably, leaning fully-upright against a tree. Four years in various military institutions have lowered his standards of what constitutes a safe place to rest. If Newton slept there, however, it would become absolutely disgusting. The man has almost no lab protocols to speak of and only yesterday took his first shower in over a week. Hermann has always been able to keep himself fairly clean. It is a necessity now that his risk of infection is heightened by his treatment. The couch remains Hermann’s secret. He feels only mild guilt when Newton jerks awake and immediately tries to crack his neck and back. Hermann knows sleeping at a desk is painful. Sleeping in someone else’s germs is inadvisable, though, and really, Hermann needs the couch. He needs to rest his legs a bit sometimes.

Sometimes, Hermann wakes up behind his whiteboards and knows that Newton has no idea where Hermann is. He’ll be singing something quiet, usually. Something quiet and a bit sad. His voice isn’t any better at these times, but it is less deliberately obnoxious. Hermann heard him singing something once about his heart being a mess, and another time it was “I Will Follow You Into The Dark,” a song Hermann had heard his teenage niece listening to when she was going through a Phase. Hermann is fairly sure that Newton only sings these kinds of sad songs because thinks Hermann has gone out for some reason. The man’s sense of time is nonexistent thanks to the constant glare of the lights and a lack of windows; they could have been in this lab for over a week, for all Newton knows. Hermann, however, is an excellent timekeeper. He has had his final treatment a few hours earlier and is feeling like hell. This means four days have passed since he and Newton began their work here at Berkeley. Mr. Becket will be back in three days to pick the two of them up so they can return to Bravo company.

Hermann has never had such responsibilities as he does now. He is a _sergeant_ for God’s sake. He is in charge of people, takes orders and follows them, leads his men into battle. He knows he has killed people. He killed people five days ago, in Japan. Members of Kaiju, of course, the enemy. The enemy according to most of the world. There are no absolutes, though, and Hermann knows this in his very bones and sinew. No absolutes but mathematical ones. Only in maths are there clear right and wrong answers, though even those fall apart the higher you rise, from arithmetic to algebra to geometry to calculus. Where Hermann is now, in the midst of economic modeling, there are far more wrong answers than right ones, but each wrong is a step closer to rightness. Hermann suspects sometimes that such sloppy, wrongheaded techniques are all that humanity has in seeking some kind of truth. It is a worrying thought.

Though raised Jewish by his mother (his father did not care about religion), Hermann is agnostic, which means he is far too concerned with his own moral code because who knows for sure that there is a higher code out there. Killing has always been a questionable practice that he engaged in because there was no way to be a soldier rising in the military ranks without killing someone. At least, that’s what his father told him. It weighs on him, though. It feels heavy, the knowledge of what he has done in his life. It is not impossible to keep moving with this burden, but it is a stone in his chest and a pressure on his mind nonetheless. Hermann can understand people who give up or start fighting against their memories when they have done things in war that they are not proud of. Hermann is not proud, but he is not crippled by his guilt. He is crippled by far too much else.

Quietly, he has been scanning articles on choosing walking aids. 

It makes him feel sick, sometimes, that he is more ashamed when he pictures himself standing in front of his father while leaning on a cane than he is when he remembers that he has killed people. He comforts himself by thinking that the cane is in the future while the deaths are in the past, something unchangeable that he has to accept, but he is starting to realize that the cane will be another unchangeable fact he has to accept as well.

“…said no!” There is a clatter and Newton starts coughing.

“Newton?” Hermann turns from his calculations. In the midst of a violent awakening, Newton has managed to swat his glasses across the room. He’s gripping the table, breathing deeply between coughing fits. “I’ll get you water, just a moment.”

“Thanks, man.” Newton drains the paper cup Hermann hands him and starts sliding his hands all over the counter, feeling for his spectacles. “You see my glasses?”

Hermann has to lean on a chair to bend and get them, and levers himself back up the same way. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Newton puts his glasses on and promptly shoves them up into his hair as he runs his hands over his face. “Fuuuuuuuck.”

“A nightmare?”

“Mmhmm.”

Hermann returns to his boards and pretends to contemplate them before he speaks again. “…Would it help to talk about it?”

“Nah,” Newton says. “Nightmares never make sense. Mine don’t, anyway. Yours are probably about imperfect numbers or irrational equations or something.” He snickers.

“I am a soldier, Newton,” Hermann says. “A veteran, too, I may add. My nightmares are far more interesting than that.”

Newton’s chair squeaks as the man looks at him. Hermann doesn’t turn around but he can feel the Newton’s interest sharpen, aimed right between Hermann’s shoulder blades. “Oh yeah? You dream about this war or all of your wars?”

“All.”

“Huh. Seen some shit, then?”

“You recall our only combat situation thus far?”

“In Japan? Yeah. You dream about that?”

“I do not dream about things that dull.”

Newton’s laugh sounds horrified. “Jesus, dude, _that_ was _dull_?”

Hermann doesn’t answer.

“Do you tell people about your dreams?” Newton says after a moment. “Like, professionals?”

“No. I lack the time, the patience, and the respect for therapy. I am too combative and dismissive of the profession. This is according to two therapists that I was forced to see after a tour of duty.” Hermann is glad Newton can’t see his smile, which he knows is bitter. “I come from a family that bottles their feelings. It is a technique of compartmentalization that I am comfortable with.”

“Every book out there tells you not to do that,” Newton says. Hermann is prepared to tell him to shut up and get back to work when Newton adds, “But hey, so long as you’re cool with it, who’s to judge?”

Hermann has to glance at him for that. Newton has his shoulders around his ears and he’s grinning faintly, nervously. 

Hermann nods at him. “Quite right.”

“Ugh, so British, dude,” Newton laughs, and he hops down from his chair to get more water.

“Start my kettle while you’re over there, would you?” Hermann says. As he’d expected (and hoped), Newton laughs again.

“Ahhh, I needed that nap,” Newton says over the rattle of the teakettle. He yawns. “How long was I out?”

“Six hours.”

“Shit!”

“Mmm.”

“Why’d you let me sleep so long?”

“I left for my treatment. When I returned, you were still asleep, and I decided that you needed the rest.”

Newton sighs. “You’re probably right. But dude, you need a nap, too.”

“I do not.”

“Uh, yeah, you do. You’ve been up longer than I have. I don’t even know what time it is and I know that much.”

“It is ten in the evening. Twenty-two hundred hours.”

“Shit shit shit.”

“Newton,” Hermann says, and as always he is startled by how quickly the man shuts up and gives him his full attention. “You have time, you realize? We have another three days until Mr. Becket arrives and we depart for Bravo company again.”

“I dunno that it’s going to be enough time to figure all this out, though,” Newton says.

“I am sure you will do it,” Hermann says.

Newton _glows_. “Awww, damn, dude, thanks!”

Hermann rubs the bridge of his nose. “Yes, well, you have to do it still, so get cracking.”

“Sir!” Newton says. It is quiet but for Newton’s typing for a full minute, then Newton says, “Hey, where’s my music? What’s my computer doing? Is this _math_? Ew, Iceman, get this shit off of Tiffany!”

“You named that particular computer _Tiffany_?” And then Hermann realizes what Newton said and he whips his head around so fast he feels his vertebrae pop. 

Newton has his hands on the keyboard and Hermann dives for him as Newton is saying, “Yeah, I could see it in her circuits that she— Ow!”

“Do _not_ fucking touch that,” Herman gasps, sinking his fingernails into Newton’s wrists. “That is _sensitive data_. Use another computer for your ridiculous music or better yet, learn to tolerate _silence_.” He glares at the man until Newton nods, then releases him. Hermann’s heart is still racing as he limps over to the broken kettle to turn it back on; it had shut off right on schedule and it will need another few minutes to boil. “Got gebn mir shtarkayt.”

“What?”

Hermann glares at him again. “How many languages do you speak?”

“Like, well?” Newton shrugs. “Just English and German. I can do fine in Japanese and Cantonese and I’m passable at Spanish and I’m bad at French and I just know poetry words in Russian. And I can say ‘Go fuck yourself’ in Italian.”

Hermann returns to his boards. “Mmm. Well, you are missing one vital tongue in your collection, to my infinite surprise.”

“Sorry,” Newton says. “About Tiffany.”

Once more, Hermann whips his head around far too quickly and ignores a warning twinge. “I beg your pardon?” He will give himself whiplash if Newton keeps acting like this.

The back of Newton’s neck is impossibly red. “Sorry.”

Hermann glances at the computer with his maths running on it (it is not called Tiffany, he refuses to think of it as Tiffany), then at Newton. “Well. Yes. You should be.”

“I _am_.”

“Yes. I recall.”

The silence in the lab feels awkward for a while until Hermann steps away from his boards, sighs, pulls his glasses out of his uniform’s chest pocket, and walks over to one of his own computers. “Which Pandora station do you want, Newton?”

“What, really?” Newton says, and Hermann can hear his smirk. “I was just getting used to the silence, man! I might work better under these conditions, actually, I don’t know what I was thinking when I kept insisting—”

“Do not make me regret this,” Hermann says, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

“Ummm, type in Sigur Rós.”

“How on _earth_ is that spelled?”

“Ess eye jee you are space are oh ess, dude. You’ve never heard of them?”

“No.”

“Icelandic band. Hella hipster.”

“I don’t know what that entails.”

Newton snorts. “Are you truly so hipster you don’t know what hipster music is? Whatever. It’s low-key, dude. And it’s all Icelandic so I can’t sing along with it. Maybe you’ll like it.”

“If you can’t sing to it, I already like it.”

“Asshole.”

Hermann sighs around a smile and pushes his glasses up on his nose, leaning closer to the computer screen to read the song name that has popped up. “Sai-glow-purr? Am I saying that correctly?”

“Fucked if I know.”

“…It takes a rather long time for the actual song to start, doesn’t it?”

“Man, don’t you have work to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When he mentions popular economics books, Hermann is referring to _Freakonomics_ , _SuperFreakonomics_ , and _Think Like A Freak_ , all by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner. They’re all really good books, very clearly written, and I recommend them.
> 
> Hermann mentions Newt’s musical decisions, which in this case include “Heart’s a Mess” by Gotye, “I Will Follow You Into The Dark” by Death Cab for Cutie, and “Saeglopur” by Sigur Rós. I love me some Sigur Rós but it _is_ slow to start up, damn. Hermann might like some of their songs, though.
> 
> Hermann says “God give me strength” in Yiddish. It was super duper hard to find a transliteration of that phrase. I give myself a high-five for that one.
> 
> I just picked a bunch of popular languages for Newt to speak. Newt definitely doesn’t know any Yiddish or Hebrew; they aren’t that useful for where Newt wants to go in his life. I feel like Hermann knows how to read some Hebrew and knows a lot of Yiddish phrases but couldn’t tell you the grammar structures or spelling at all. His knowledge of the language was all acquired through his mother and grandparents speaking it, not through study, and it just slips out when he’s super pissed or annoyed because let me tell you, Yiddish is a really good language for being angry in. Just like German.
> 
> This fic is just an excuse for me to nerd about languages and music.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning at the top of the end notes if you want to double-check before you read this chapter.

Reporterman Raleigh pokes his shaggy head in and grins at them. “You guys ready to head back into the fray?”

Newt stares at him blankly, several sheets of paper in his sweating hand. They’re all he has to show for a week of nearly constant work. “Uh.”

“We can be,” Gottlieb says, standing with some effort and leaving his fingertips on his desk for balance. Newt’s kind of not okay with that. Why’d the guy come out here to get a treatment that isn’t even working? Maybe it takes time. 

“Any scientific breakthroughs?” Reporterman Raleigh asks with a wink.

Newt glances at Gottlieb to find the man already eyeing him back. Newt shrugs. 

Gottlieb clears his throat. “N— Geiszler discovered why the Pacific is being targeted.”

Raleigh’s smile doesn’t change. “Good. That’s good!”

“Is it?” Newt asks him, just to see if the guy will change his mind. Becket’s smile fades and Newt snickers a little. “Yeah, okay, it’s pretty good. Just messing with you. It’s not as good as a cure for Blue poisoning but it’s like, pretty good.”

“It’s more than all of K-Science has accomplished thus far,” Gottlieb mutters.

“Your model got some more data, too, man” Newt points out. “That’s pretty fuckin great.”

Gottlieb’s mouth twists. “Mmm.”

Newt turns to Becket. “It’s pretty fuckin great, Iceman just has his name to live up to.”

“That bizarre nickname does not refer to my demeanor, Geiszler. I believe we have already had this conversation.”

“See, I’m saying it does refer to your demeanor. The person who started it may not have told you to your face, but the name ‘Iceman’ becomes so appropriate when it’s referring what an uptight asshole you are.”

Gottlieb rolls his eyes. It’s a performance art piece, practically. The roll starts low, reaches the apex, hovers there for a breathless second, and then drops suddenly to rest on the reporter, who is watching both of them nervously now, still leaning in their doorway like he could run off at any moment.

“Uh,” Becket says. “Are you cool with leaving in ten minutes, then, or are you staying?”

“Going,” Newt says. “We’re going. Gotta pack some shit, you go ahead.”

“You don’t know where we’re meeting,” Reporterman Raleigh points out.

This is a reasonable concern. “Okay,” Newt says, “give us five and we’ll come out.”

Becket nods and shuts the door behind him.

“Do you truly want to leave at this time, Geiszler?” Gottlieb asks.

Newt stares at him. “Do you not? Do you wanna go text that Pentecost guy and tell him you’re on-board about K-Sci?”

Gottlieb shifts uncomfortably. “The Lieutenant Colonel is not a man I text.”

“That was not the important part of the question. You fixate on the weirdest shit. Do you want to stay here?”

Gottlieb shakes his head once.

“Well then, let’s grab some data for the road and go!”

“We will not have _time_ to work on this type of research once we re-enter the field, Geiszler!” Gottlieb snaps.

“Yeah,” Newt says. “I know. I just don’t know what else to do with it.”

“Have you sent it to K-Science?”

Newt turns away to hide an eyeroll of his own. “…I was kinda worried they’d steal it,” he says. It’s a reasonable concern but dammit, Newt’s an adult, he’s not going to hang on to info that could potentially save humanity just because he wants first publishing rights. Apparently, though, Gottlieb doesn’t know that. Jerk.

Gottlieb throws up his hands. “Do you not care about the free exchange of information within the scientific community during times of world-wide conflict?”

Newt rolls his eyes again under the cover of stapling some of his data together. He lays on the sarcasm extra thick when he says, “Uh, I can honestly say I’ve never thought that deeply about it. You know, the sanctity of human life? Fuck it, who cares? Not me. I joined K-Division for the bitches, just like I do the science for the bitches.”

Gottlieb glares at him for a moment, then turns his back and begins collecting various items that have migrated from his pockets to any available surface. Newt struggles into his uniform blouse and leaves it unbuttoned (gotta let his tats breathe a little longer). He also gathers together more bits of detritus around the lab, though he’s mostly interested in keeping all of his notes together. He bought four notebooks at the student store across the quad (along with a lot more energy drinks and candybars and chips and yeah, a couple porn mags, which are waiting for him in a tote bag by the door) and they’re all getting filled up if he has his way.

“Farewell, Tiffany,” he tells his favorite music computer. “Your streaming was clean and quick and your screen always glowed a little brighter for me.” He pats the monitor.

“Idiot,” he hears Gottlieb mumble. He raises his middle finger in Gottlieb’s general direction, then focuses on the guy’s whiteboards.

“Oh man, can I erase this?” he asks.

“I have no objection,” Gottlieb says, “though I don’t know why—” and Newt stops listening in favor of clearing the equations with wide, shoulder-aching strokes. He grabs a green dry-erase marker from the shelf and sketches out Mothra in a few lines, then adds a couple dinosaurs he remembers from _Land Before Time_ in purple and orange. They are sharing a treestar that has a grumpy-looking face inspired by Iceman as his bitchiest.

Gottlieb huffs, which could probably be taken as a laugh. Newt grins at his handiwork, victorious. 

“You ready?” Reporterman Raleigh calls from the doorway again.

“Hell yeah, motherfucker!” Newt says, flinging the marker behind him as he runs to scoop up his belongings.

“For God’s sake, Geiszler,” he hears Gottlieb start yelling behind him, but Newt’s already cackling, drunk on the fact that for three five blissful days he got his uptight sergeant to call him by his first name and not even bitch about it. 

*

The helicopter ride back is fairly silent. Becket keeps trying to get them to talk more about their work but it’s just sad to see a guy like him try to ask intelligent questions about science he doesn’t fully understand. Newt starts throwing out chemical terms and talking about the ‘unclear nature of the catalyst for a saline exothermic reaction that resulted in cyan neutralization and sterilization,’ which makes the reporter’s eyes glaze over. Newt thinks he catches the edge of Gottlieb’s smile as the man leans over to sign with the pilot (does Gottlieb know ASL?). It’s nice to think that the guy appreciates Newt’s bullshit efforts. Heck, it’s nice to think that the Iceman appreciates any of Newt’s efforts. Newt’s maybe not being subtle at all about how much he wants this guy to like him, and Gottlieb’s stopped fighting back so hard. That’s pretty cool.

Newt knows he’s super bad at first impressions. He’s loud and he won’t shut up and he says offensive things without honestly realizing what he’s doing. He knows all this. No one’s ever been trapped with him long enough for him to grow on them, apart from his dad and his uncle. It may be working with Gottlieb, though. Like, maybe. Newt doesn’t want to get his hopes up but things are feeling pretty solid. Dude remembered Newt’s vague comment about getting a beer after the war so that’s a good sign.

Newt closes his eyes, ignoring the pinch of the big plastic helicopter earmuffs. He was so close to figuring out Kaiju Blue. Frame by frame he’d found jack shit on what caused Blue to explode in the security footage. The camera was time lapse and only took a frame every twenty seconds, his notes were goddamn shameful, and he felt brain-dead enough without trying to remember. Even so, he had gotten closer to figuring out why it was the Pacific Ocean in particular that the Kaiju targeted. It was like one of Gottlieb’s models.

Iceman thought Newt didn’t listen. The guy would mutter away over there about different factors he was trying to fit into the grand equation that would poop out the next Kaiju attack and hello, Newt was right there! Listening! Just like Gottlieb had to hear Newt sing, Newt had to hear him talk to himself about his little predicative model. There were a ton of things to consider when it came to people making decisions; some of the same principals applied when Newt sat down to figure out what the fuck was making Kaiju Blue spread and why the Kaiju struck locations that affected the largest body of water in the world when they could potentially go and fuck up the Great Lakes or the Mediterranean or a particular part of the world instead of, yanno, all around the edges of this big empty wet space. There’d be way more panic in concentrated areas. Why pick the Pacific?

It was a simplified version, of course, but basically Kaiju members were looking for a perfect storm and they found one in the Pacific. Ocean temperature ranges, sea life concentrations, salinity, currents, flora… They tailored their brew of Blue to very specific regions. Blue poisoning all looked the same, of course. It had the same effect on the environment. However, a major part of Blue poisoning was caused by tailoring Kaiju Blue for a very narrow region of the Pacific ecosystem. It would spread and dilute eventually, but it hit hard and fast where it was designed to hit hard and fast. All the islands in the Pacific meant there were way more options for spreading the stuff, too. It probably wouldn’t work too well in deep ocean trenches or open water; it was all about the fish and plants and soil and sand that really kickstarted the environmental devastation. There was a base chemical compound in the Blue that K-Science was working on. They just hadn’t figured out what Newt had noticed. 

“We’re here,” someone said into his headset. 

Newt cracked an eye. “That wasn’t very long.”

“It was,” Gottlieb tells him sharply. “You fell asleep. We’re on Hawaii.”

“Oh my God, really?” Newt rips off the headset, feeling blood rush back into his poor, pinched ears. “And Dad told me the army wouldn’t be a chance to vacation around the world!”

“We are not the army, we— Never mind,” Gottlieb sighed. “The rest of our company is here. I will be debriefed. You should acquaint yourself with the current mission. Do not take information from Lance Corporal Trombley as gospel.”

“No way, sir,” Newt says, waving vaguely. He searches the crowd for someone he knows. It’s apparently Shirtless Time in Hawaii. Uniforms (even a lack of them) make spotting colleagues so damn difficult. It’s like trying to pick a particular bird out a flock of the same freaking bird.

“Hey, Newt!” Choi calls. Corporal Choi is lounging on the hood of a Humvee, smoking a cigar, down to just his uniform pants and boots, looking super cool in really great sunglasses. Newt isn’t sure how he gets his hair to do that all the time but Newt is _jealous_.

“Hey!” Newt yells, waving frantically as he runs over. “What’s up, man? What’d I miss?”

Choi grins around the cigar. “Not a lot, brother. We dicked around the Philippines for a while. They had an attack a couple weeks ago and it’s still a shitshow out there. Everyone’s pissed as fuck about the beaches. Not as mad as Sri Lanka, of course. They lost their precious mangroves and they are not happy about that, let me tell you. But yeah, we had to do some crowd-control in Manila while nerds collected samples with a backhoe.”

“…Backhoe,” Newt whispers longingly. He could have been elbow-deep in Kaiju Blue, figuring out its acidity levels and its unique chemical makeup and being an asshole to his colleagues. Then again, he managed to do a lot of that while in K-Division, and the colleagues he got to annoy were so much better than anything he could expect in K-Science.

“How was your bonding time with the sergeant?” Choi asks.

Newt shrugs like he doesn’t care. “I mean, I think I’m just three more pop songs away from making his heart explode, so things went swimmingly.”

Choi laughs until he’s coughing. “Oh man,” he says, wiping his eyes. “You are something else. You are seriously gonna kill a superior officer.”

“Never on _purpose_ but yeah, I might. I’m not gonna tone down all of this.” Newt waves at himself like he’s Vanna White and the prize all in one. Maybe Vanna actually did that. Like, when she was home with her boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever she was into. She’d just wave at herself. Staying in shape, boosting self-esteem.

Apparently, Choi can blow smoke rings. “Don’t stop being you, Newt.”

“You are so cool,” Newt tells him. “Like, cooler than a cucumber salad that’s been in the fridge for an hour. How often do you hear that from your admireres?”

“Five times a day minimum.”

“I hope I helped you meet your quota. Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“What the fuck are we doing in Hawaii?”

Choi breathes out smoke through his nose like a dragon. “Well, currently I’m enjoying a cigar shirtless. Later, I might take my pants off, too. I don’t know what you’re gonna do but I at least recommend sitting down.”

“I’ve been sitting for hours. I wanna know what the Kaiju are planning.”

“We were waiting on the sergeant,” Choi says with a shrug. “We couldn’t do shit without him, apparently. And you ran off with him, maybe to elope.”

“Ew, gross,” Newt says quickly. “And also, what? He’s just a sergeant. They can make decisions without him. This is K-Division, not Gottlieb’s Fun Squad.”

“You’re a part of Gottlieb’s Fun Squad. Founding member. And he ranks higher than you, Corporal. Don’t be talkin shit.”

Newt waves a hand. “K-Division isn’t a real army by army standards. Is Iceman like, invaluable or something?”

“Secret power behind the throne? Dunno. I think they just need him for his brain.”

“Yeah. I can see that.”

Choi stubs out the end of his cigar, sticks it behind his ear, and sits up, stretching. “We’ll probably be taking off soon, so don’t get too comfy. You’re back to driving. I hope you enjoyed your honeymoon.”

“I was busy dreaming of the limpid pools of your eyes, dickface,” Newt says. “Where’s my team?”

“You’d rather spend time with _Trombley_ than me?” Choi says. Something about his voice makes it sound like less than a joke.

“What happened?” Newt asks.

Choi hops down off his Humvee and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Shot a kid.”

“What?”

“The kid killed a kid. When we were doing crowd-control. Manila. Trombley’s fucking _eighteen_ and he shot a ten-year-old. Because he thought the kid had Kaiju sympathies or something.”

Newt can’t breathe. “You’re… no…”

Choi is shaking his head. “It’s so fucked up out here, man. You should have stayed gone. Captain Kangaroo was pissed, All the locals in Manila were mad as hell, I thought Captain Hansen was gonna punch him in the neck. Espera actually _did_ punch him. I owe him a whiskey after we get back to civilization.”

Newt turns away and starts walking. It’s still very hard to breathe. He’s going to have to drive a car with a guy that _shot a kid_. He’s going to have to be in cramped quarters with a _murderer_. These thoughts chase each other, circling his mind. He can picture himself at ten years old. He can picture that photo of his dad and his uncle, fishing, when his dad was eight and Gunter was twelve. He’s babysat the neighbor kids. Newt remembers when he was too smart and even more socially awkward than he is now and he was growing out of his shoes as fast as his dad could buy them and his parents were yelling at each other all the time and he had the best comic book collection in school but he was too smart for the education system, way too smart, they were testing him and raising their eyebrows just like Gottlieb does when Newt says something insightful but Newt just wanted to learn to play bass guitar like that guy in Nirvana who wasn’t Kurt but still got to be onstage and maybe got to kiss someone without it being a big media deal and—

Newt’s on all fours, trying not to throw up. He’s crying. This is not good. He has to have cred here in K-Division. He can’t be a weepy mess in front of these guys. There’s a dull roaring in his ears. Tree roots are digging into his knees. There’s sand crammed under his fingernails. 

He’s sharing a car with a murderer. 

He’s sharing a car with a _kid-killer_. What was the kid’s name? Boy or girl? Is it better, one way or the other? What was their family like? Did they like to read the same comics Newt had when he was ten? 

Newt sits back on his heels and looks up. He’s alone. He made it to the forest, far enough away from the K-Division crowd that no one’s gonna see him like this. Good. Good job, body. Made it this far before a breakdown.

Shit.

Breakdown.

This better not be something like that.

Newt can feel his stomach, tight like his chest, roiling. He’s scared of snapping and that makes him more likely to snap. He needs to calm down. He needs to calm down _right now_. Too much pressure. 

Newt leans back against a tree and sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of an anonymous child dying offscreen triggers an anxiety attack. Neither moment is particularly graphic.
> 
> Mothra is a monster that fights Godzilla. _The Land Before Time_ is a delightful children’s movie franchise about dinosaurs. I bet Newt would identify with Sara, so she’s probably the orange one. He probably drew Spike as well.
> 
> They call the uniform jackets ‘blouses’ in _Generation Kill_. I had literally never heard before but that happened so I’m putting it in here.
> 
> Newt basically tells Raleigh that he doesn’t know what caused the explosion in the oceanwater that made him and Hermann have to take an unsexy shower together to get rid of the Blue. Translating from English to English because that sentence was 100% bullshit facilitated by a thesaurus.
> 
> My oceanography is 100% bullshit as well. I’m sorry that science got the shaft in this fic and language steals the show. I am so, so sorry.
> 
> Trombley killing someone is canon from _Generation Kill_ , though the location is different and the age is not specified. The soldiers in that show don’t appreciate his actions, either.


	14. Chapter 14

It’s always so dramatic when he breaks. The comedown happens slowly. Newt almost falls asleep, leaning against the tree trunk. He’s sprawled on the ground, glasses resting on his chest, sniffling every now and then when his breath accidentally hitches. 

The weather’s so nice here. It’s low 60s, which is perfect right now when Newt’s wearing all these layers. It doesn’t seem like it’s almost winter. It doesn’t seem like there are dangerous people out in the world, some of them about to share a car with Newt (don’t go back down that road, buddy, he tells himself, and keeps breathing). A breeze pushes through the leaves, making the hazy patterns of sunlight dance. It’s just a pretty day. Newt can’t see with his glasses off so it’s all Monet to him, but still. It’s pretty.

He gets up when he feels his neck starting to crick. Nothing else to be done. He agreed to go back to K-Division instead of K-Science, though he’s arguably a colossal fuck-up in the mental health department. Dissociation’s never really been his thing. He likes to be immersed in the world, in emotion. It’s not always safe to do so. He has to do this job, though. So he walks back to camp, stumbling a little. He doesn’t put his glasses on. He needs the world to be unreal for just a few more minutes.

“Newt, you asshole!” someone yells, and now a guy’s grabbing him around the neck. “Where the fuck’ve you been?”

“Around,” Newt says. He sounds normal. Gold star for him.

Whoever has him by the neck snorts and says, “Not recently!” Newt has passed as a functioning human being. Double gold stars.

“Nah,” he says, shoving the guy off and smiling at the flesh-colored blob of his face. “I was out doing secret missions and covert ops and sexy, sexy spy-whore things.”

“Spy-whore, huh? I knew the glasses were just a ruse, trying to win hot nerd points.”

“The name’s Geiszler,” Newt says, trying to make his voice drop an octave like it failed to do while he went through puberty. “Newt Geiszler.”

“Dayum, son, I think I creamed my panties over that one.”

“You know where my fuckin Humvee ran off to?” Newt asks.

“Think it’s that way.” The shape waves an arm in a direction.

Newt slaps the helpful guy’s outstretched hand as he jogs past. “Thanks!”

“Better hurry up,” the guy calls after him. “We’re about to roll out!”

“Late late late,” Newt yells back, then concentrates on breathing. It helps if he’s moving. He’d found that out in bootcamp. He never thought to handle his attacks with exercise but mindlessly focusing on something actually helps a lot. The movement, the knowledge that he’s going to hurt tomorrow and trying to figure out what muscle groups in particular are going to be aching knots… It keeps him up on his bio knowledge _and_ keeps him from screaming. He does put his glasses back on, though, or else he’s never going to find the right car amongst all the smudgy, jungle-painted Humvees.

Newt really shouldn’t have worried about it.

“Geiszler!”

“Yeah, sir, coming!” he yells. He’s breathing easy now, and he falls into his usual pattern of mocking Gottlieb to make himself feel even more like a real person. “Hey, let’s Marco Polo this shit! Marco!”

“Move it!”

“Marco!”

“Geiszler!”

“Wow, you’re super bad at that game,” Newt says, sliding into the driver’s seat. He glances into the back before he can scare himself. Trombley’s slumped down, glaring at the gun resting loosely in his lap. Espera ducks down from the turret and grins at Newt, then pops back into place. Reporterman looks somber. He probably knows, too.

When Newt looks at Gottlieb, though, he’s never seen the guy looking so pissed. And that’s really saying something. It’s like Newt can see the ulcer forming from the way Gottlieb’s mouth is thinned to nothing, the glassy glare he has going on, the fact that he’s flushed with rage and a vein is pulsing in his temple and his jaw is _creaking_. Newt takes one look at his superior officer and immediately feels a million times better. If Gottlieb is mad at someone, Newt can just sit back and relax because that someone is going to have a shitty fuckin life without Newt doing a damn thing. Newt doesn’t actually feel sorry for Trombley, but he does wish him godspeed with his remaining tour of duty. The kid is _fucked_.

“Where’re we off to, sir?” Newt asks.

“It’s a short trip,” Gottlieb says. “Less than an hour if all goes smoothly. Follow the cliffs northward, Corporal.”

“Yessir.” Newt starts the car and clears his throat. “Well, sometimes. I. Feel I’ve got to—” He pounds the steering wheel twice. “Run away! I’ve got to—” He pounds the wheel again. “Get away! From the pain your driving to love in me!”

“Fuckin seriously?” Newt hears Trombley mutter.

“Something you’d like to say, _Lance Corporal_?” Gottlieb snarls. And it’s a snarl. The guy whips around in his seat and beams that icy stare back into Trombley’s corner and Newt wishes he didn’t have to watch the road because Trombley probably wet himself. Newt heard him breathe in sharply, at least. Probably thinks it’ll be his last breath on Earth.

“Nosir,” Trombley says quickly.

“You’re damn right,” Gottlieb hisses. Newt might have nightmares that Gottlieb uses that tone of voice on him.

The Humvee is tense now as Newt starts the train of K-Division personnel. Then Newt clears his throat again.

“You take requests?” Raleigh asks suddenly.

“If I know it and I like it and I like you? Sure,” Newt says. “Silence is not a request, Iceman, don’t even try that shit with me.”

“A pity I’m so predictable,” Gottlieb says. He sounds less horrible, though. He sounds the normal kind of angry, which is annoyed at Newt. He sounds human. This is progress.

“Do you know ‘I’ll Stop the World and Melt With You?’” Raleigh asks.

“Moving forward using all my breath!” Newt begins instead of answering. Raleigh joins him on the second line. By the chorus, only Gottlieb and Trombley are silent, though Newt thinks he can hear Gottlieb humming a little bit. Newt rests his left arm on the window ledge, dangles his hand in the warm air, and breathes in deeply so he can sing the bit about making love to you as loud as he can. Maybe he can get Iceman to blush. That would be awesome.

*

Because Gottlieb still doesn’t say anything about Newt’s singing (and doesn’t blush, dammit), Newt decides to sing more.

*

“And I’ve been a fool and I’ve been blind,” Newt howls. “I could never leave the past behind!” For some reason, Espera’s the only one who knows Florence well enough to sing along. He’s giving it all he’s got up there in the tower and so Newt has to sing even louder and worse to compete with the guy’s excellent voice (how is a baritone rocking those high notes? How?). Gottlieb never moves from his position by the window but Newt can see him wince every time Newt’s voice cracks.

*

“Boppin through the wild blue! Tryin to make a connection with you!” Newt draws out the “you” for as long as he has air because he’s fighting Raleigh again, that asshole! How does he know The Boss? “This is Radio Nowhere! Is there anybody alive out there?”

*

“…From the midnight sun where the hot springs glow—” and then Newt stops. Because he blasted through the opening scream, which made all of the men in the Humvee jump, but Trombley’s joined in now. The kid shuts up quick when he realizes Newt’s abandoned him mid-song. The Humvee is silent for a while. 

Newt thinks about his music choices. He’s gotten one for every man here. They all sang along (even if they weren’t allowed to, _Trombley_ ). Gottlieb’s the odd man out. This isn’t surprising, but Newt wants to make it four for four. He thinks. What would Gottlieb know? Well, what would Gottlieb know and admit to knowing and also sing along to?

Newt starts bobbing his head, thinking of the violin solo that leads up to this particular song. He hits the right rhythm and then starts in. “ _Ich steh im Zimmer. Kann nicht pennen. Meine Birne. Is’ am brennen. Ich gieß mir einen auf die Lampe - bringt nichts, die Gedanken rennen. Durch den Schädel. Immer im Kreis. Alle Drähte. Laufen heiß. Es riecht nach hirnverbranntem Fleisch. Ich stecke meinen. Kopf ins Eis. Ich denk. Denk zuviel es wär gut, wenn mein Hirn aus dem Fenster fiel, druck im Kopf, es gibt kein Ventil—_ ”

“That’s enough,” Gottlieb says quietly.

Newt risks a glance over. He doesn’t know what he expected; Gottlieb’s still stiff as a board, gun aimed out the window at the empty trees. He’s missing out on the great ocean view, unfortunately for him. He’s also seemingly uninspired by German rap.

“What was that?” Reporterman Raleigh asks.

“Peter Fox,” Newt sighs. “I thought I could persuade a fellow _Deutschländer_ to join me but nope. I don’t know why I have hopes and dreams.”

“ _Deutschländer_ is not the correct term,” Gottlieb says. “You’re referring to me as a German country, not a citizen of Germany.”

“It’s for the benefit of these uneducated assholes,” Newt stage-whispers.

Gottlieb shakes his head and doesn’t say anything. Newt’s not sure what’s wrong with the guy. Newt just set him up for a fairly sick burn. Geiszler the uneducated asshole, ohoho aren’t you funny Sergeant. But nope, Gottlieb’s just sitting there. Newt runs through the conversation. He hasn’t insulted the guy in ages, what’s his problem?

“What does it mean?” Reporterman Raleigh asks. “The song. Is it rap?”

“Yeah,” Newt says. “It’s hip-hop, but the guy—”

“Movement,” says Espera. “Ten o’clock.”

“Trombley,” Gottlieb says.

It’s a long moment before Trombley says, “I see. Uh. Something. Movement, yeah.”

Newt calls it in. “Bravo One, movement at our ten o’clock. Over.”

It’s another long moment before the static buzzes. “Permission to fire. Shoot to kill.”

“Motherfuck,” Newt says before he remembers that not everyone can hear coms. “Permission to fire, everybody. They don’t want anyone alive here. Fuck.”

“Trombley,” Gottlieb says. 

“Y-yessir,” Trombley says. Newt can hear his gun clacking against the window ledge. Then he fires. Newt keeps his eyes on the road. He’s holding it together now. He totally vented all of his feelings back there under that convenient tree and he’s in control now and yes. He’s doing great.

Someone outside the Humvee moans. It fades away behind them. Newt maybe starts getting leadfoot on the gas.

“Slow down,” Gottlieb says immediately. Of course the fucking robot would notice a change in speed. Newt forces himself to take a breath in and ease his foot off.

“Espera,” Gottlieb says, “any further movement?”

“Nosir.” 

“Notify us if there is. Do not fire unless another person confirms the motion. We want to keep this quiet.”

Newt just drives. He’s the driving guy, driving away. Gottlieb knows where they’re going. They’ve got to be close now, right? Newt sang a bunch of songs there. That ate up time. He checks behind them. Everyone’s alert as far as he can tell. They’re soldiers doing what they do best and Newt? He’s doing an excellent job not puking.

Gottlieb clears his throat. “We’re getting close to the site of the attack and it would be most beneficial if we could catch them _before_ they poison yet another stretch of land. Fire only if you’re sure you can make the shot before someone raises the alarm, or if you come under fire first. Geiszler, take the next left that will get us to the water.”

“Yessir,” Newt says.

“Mister Becket,” Gottlieb continues, “are you wearing your body armor?”

“Yeah,” the reporter says.

“Excellent. Stay low. Keep your helmet on and stay with the Humvees. Espera will remain with you after the rest of us move out. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Becket says. Newt wonders how he sounds so calm. That can’t be a normal response. The civilian should be freaking out. _Newt_ is freaking out. But Newt has to pretend like he’s calm, so maybe the reporter’s pretending, too? Maybe they’re all pretending. Maybe Iceman’s actually a kind, sweet person.

Actually, nothing he’s done (apart from snapping at Newt, which everyone’s done at least once in their lifetime) suggests that he isn’t a kind person. Oh shit, now Newt’s thinking about Gottlieb’s personality and he’s going to start getting tummy butterflies at a very, very inconvenient time. Nope, nope, shut that shit down and focus. Battle time. Take that next left.  
Newt eases into the turn.

“Stop at that tree,” Gottlieb murmurs. The rest of the convoy spreads out behind them, walling off a hollow middle space that the machine gunners in the turrets can protect. Everyone eases out of their cars and spreads out.

“Coms on,” Gottlieb tells the team before he slides out of the van. Newt’s close enough to hear him hiss when his feet hit the ground. He slaps a hand on the doorframe and his knuckles are _white_. 

Everyone else is vanishing into the sparse trees, heading for the sound of the ocean. Newt ducks back into the Humvee, swings himself into Gottlieb’s seat and mutters, “You okay?”

“Get moving,” Gottlieb spits. 

Newt just sits there. He feels words fluttering in his ribcage. They’re scared words. Weak words. They’re words he doesn’t want to say, frankly, because this is combat and he’s supposed to be trained for this. He’s supposed to be able to make the switch, from singing loser to badass killing machine. The words he wants to say may not even help him out, but they’ve moved up into his throat now and he’s going to say them, whether they’re wise or not. He can’t keep a lid on his thoughts, even when he really needs to keep a lid on it.

“I don’t want to,” he says.

“Too bad,” Gottlieb says. “It’s your fucking job.”

“You know,” Newt says, “when you swear, it’s always really weird and unexpected.”

“Move out, Geiszler,” Gottlieb says.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I don’t want to,” Newt says. His eyes are burning. He probably won’t be able to say anything else without crying, now.

Gottlieb glances back. The guy’s face is so desperately cold and controlled. It’s a face he’s pasted on. His war face. But then his lips twist to the side and his eyebrows settle into a less-furious glare. Newt must really look like shit for him to break like this.

Gottlieb turns carefully, not letting go of the door frame. “What is it?”

Newt can’t swallow around the lump in his throat. When he tries, some tears leak out. Little ones. They hover on the edge of his eyelids, not quite spilling yet, but getting close. His nose is heating up, reddening already. Newt’s an ugly crier. He honestly thought he’d gotten it all out, like it was just a bucket of feelings he could dump out before replacing it under the leak in his self-control. He’s not dealing with a bucket. It’s a fucking lake he’s draining one sobfest at a time and one’s brewing right now, shit.

Gottlieb leans down, bending at the waist rather than the knees. “Tell me, Newton.”

“Trombley killed someone,” Newt breathes, and then he smashes both hands over his face, slipping his fingers under his glasses so they won’t smudge. He’s crying now, fuck. In the middle of a battle. And Gottlieb’s standing over him instead of leading the charge or whatever the fuck he’s supposed to do in situations like this. Newt’s fucking up squad dynamics. This is, like, a breakdown in military order or something. His chest is feeling tight. Is the rest of his tour of duty just going to be a string of panic attacks? A shitty spiral of bad feelings?

“Yes,” Gottlieb says. “He did.”

And the guy doesn’t even fucking _get it_. Of course not. He’s made it all the way to sergeant. He’s been doing this a long time.

Newt realizes it suddenly. His head shoots up and he stares at Gottlieb. This guy’s probably killed someone. He’s been in the armed forces for years, in K-Division since its beginning. He’s totally seen people die. He practically fucking told Newt back in the lab, when Newt was having weird nightmares about Gottlieb falling down a hill and rolling into a too-blue sea and demanding that Newt transfer to K-Science immediately. Gottlieb said that he dreamed about the wars he’s fought. He has dreams worse than what happened in Japan, which Newt never actually saw but certainly knows involved casualties.

“ _You’ve_ killed people,” Newt’s mouth says while his brain’s still processing it.

Gottlieb’s face pinches closed. Then he carefully puts a hand on Newt’s shoulder. “Do you know why I’m called Iceman?”

Well, this is way off topic. “No?”

“I’m from a cold region. That’s it. I am German, and all my first squad knew was that Germany was cold. So they called me Iceman. Not,” and here Gottlieb sinks his long, bony fingers into Newt’s shoulder hard enough to bruise, “because I lack emotion or regret or guilt for my past actions.”

Newt is kind of staring into the guy’s eyes right now. He feels hypnotized. He nods slowly. Gottlieb releases his shoulder. 

But of course, Newt can’t leave well enough alone. “But you’re going out there? Now, I mean?”

Sergeant Gottlieb shrugs. “It’s my job. I am not a scientist. I am a soldier.”

“But you _could_ be a scientist,” Newt says. “Well, a math nerd. But the same kind of left-brain shit.”

“I am…unsuited to the solitude of pure mathematics. I become distracted by… Well. I have a great deal to think about that does not have to do with predicative models, and—”

“But dude,” Newt says, because at this point he’s desperate, “ _we_ worked together. In Berkeley. And we didn’t kill each other.”

Gottlieb is standing straight now, looking down at Newt like he’s crazy. “That was one week, Newton. And you informed Lieutenant Colonel Pentecost that I would not be amenable to—”

“He’d take our call, man,” Newt says. He stands up and Gottlieb backs away because, yeah, Newt’s way too close, but he grabs his sergeant’s lapels anyway and talks fast. “He totally wants our research skills. I want more Blue, I don’t want to, to kill anyone, and you could totally come and—”

Gottlieb swats his hands away. “It is _surrender_ to—”

“What, you think it would make your dad happy if you switched to K-Sci?” Newt snorts. “The asshole ain’t even supporting our efforts anymore. And fuck him, anyway! Fuck him and do what you wanna do!”

“I want to work!” Gottlieb shouts. “For as long as I am able, I want to be a soldier! I am _doing_ what I want to do!”

Everyone’s looking at them. All of the turret gunners. Newt feels the eyes. Gottlieb is loud, especially when Newt’s pissing him off. Coms are crackling with updates from the rest of Bravo company but Gottlieb is flushed and breathing unevenly and he still can’t let go of the Humvee’s door. Newt really wishes he could just force his way inside Gottlieb’s brain and see what kind of twisted bullshit is keeping him tethered to the military, and show him that he does have free will enough to make choices about his life. But Newt isn’t a mind-reader. Newt’s just really tired of this.

“I can’t do this,” Newt tells him. His guts are twisting but he makes himself look up at Gottlieb. “I really, really can’t. And I don’t want to think that the fact that I can’t shoot anyone makes me weak. Maybe it does, but I don’t want to think that. I want to think that I’m gonna be way more helpful somewhere I can actually do the work I wanna do. I’m good at science. I work better with you, too. It’d be, like, super great if you’d come with me.” He smiles. “I get it if you can’t, but it’d be super great if you could.”

Gottlieb stares down at him. He looks around at the faces turned towards them and musters up a glare that sends the weaker turret gunners back to manning their posts, but some people aren’t looking away. 

It must be enough privacy for Gottlieb though. The guy nods at him shortly. “Then notify Lieutenant Colonel Pentecost of your intentions. And wait in the Humvee. We do not want inadequate soldiers on the field at this time.” He walks off. He’s moving very stiffly, his balance shitty as he lists from side to side like a drunk. Newt watches him until he’s vanished around a bend. Then he moves back into the driver’s seat and listens to coms without hearing anything.

“You okay?” he hears Raleigh ask. He forgot the guy was there. Maybe their argument will make it into Rolling Stone. Maybe not. Newt shakes his head at the reporterman’s question.

“You wanna talk about it?” Raleigh asks.

Newt shakes his head again and goes back to zoning out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edgar Monet is that painter with all the waterlilies and the bridge.
> 
> Newt sings “Tainted Love” by Soft Cell, “I Melt With You” by Modern English, “Shake It Out” by Florence + the Machine, “Radio Nowhere” by Bruce Springsteen, “Immigrant Song” by Led Zeppelin, and “Kopf Verloren” by Peter Fox. I know exactly what song Hermann would sing along to but I’m not sure Newt would know to try it (though it’s by an artist that influenced Kurt Cobain, so Newt probably knows the song).
> 
> By the way, I looked up translations of the Peter Fox lyrics and this song was weirdly appropriate for Newt. Thanks, lyricstranslate.com, for that. As you may be able to tell, I break up song lyrics based on the beats in the actual song, not necessarily based on complete sentences. This is a translation from the above website, broken up the way I split up the song in German:  
> 
>
>> “I stand in the room. Can’t sleep. My head. Is burning. I'll pour myself another drink - doesn’t work, my thoughts are running. Through my head. In circles. The wires. Are getting hot. It smells like burnt brain flesh. I put my. Head into ice. I think. Think too much, it would be good if my brain fell out of the window, pressure in the head, there's no outlet.”
> 
>   
> Hermann don’t wanna hear that shit from his CO. ...But in retrospect, I bet Newt's song choice really made a lot more sense to him. 


	15. Chapter 15

Newt has no idea how to get in touch with Pentecost. And replaying their conversation in his head, he’s not sure if Gottlieb agreed to go with him or not. Maybe Gottlieb’s not sure if he wants to go with Newt. Newt comes on super strong, he knows that. He just wants to be around the guy all the time and maybe hug him? Yeah. That’d be good. Any further and Newt worries that he’s gonna short circuit himself, so he sticks to the whole best friends thing he’s been hoping for all along. Progress had been made for sure. Gottlieb hadn’t freaked too much over Newt’s tats (that had ended one of his flings in the midst of Newt’s second masters degree—the minute he took his shirt off, the dude was _gone_ ). He’d listened to him when Newt went sample collecting. Shit, he’d listened when Newt said he couldn’t do this whole K-Division thing anymore.

It’s his second real mission, though. Newt’s giving up on his second real mission. The pay can’t be this good yet. He’s probably saved up jack shit for his other degrees. Maybe he _owes_ K-Division money now. 

See, if he could get in touch with Pentecost, this would be easily solved.

Someone’s humming.

Newt opens his eyes. Nothing’s moving out in the forest. Becket’s humming to himself, though. Just little disjointed things, snatches of songs that Newt can’t figure out before the guy switches to something else. Newt flops his head to the side and tries to catch a glimpse of Becket-boy’s face. He thinks the guy is writing; there’s the scratch of a pen every now and then.

“Hey,” Newt says. His voice is very dry. He needs water soon. All that fucking crying he’s been doing is gonna dehydrate the shit out of him if he’s not careful.

“Mmm?” Becket hums, not looking up.

“You have a direct line to Pentecost?”

_That_ makes the guy look up. “What?”

“Can you get in touch with Pentecost? Or like, the people who can get in touch with him. Six degrees of separation and all that. Can you do it?”

“…I’m a reporter for Rolling Stone who just managed to get out of writing articles for Hustler. I’m not connected with anyone important in the military.”

Newt sighs. “Right.” He rolls his head back into its original position. After a moment, he starts feeling around for his water bottle. It’s warm to the touch. He drinks it anyway. It’ll be absorbed into his system faster or whatever.

“What’re you going to do?” Reporterman asks.

“Go home. Live in an Indiana trailer park with my dad and uncle. Do science in a shoebox. I dunno.” Newt swigs more water. He’s going to cry if they keep up this line of questioning. He's kind of surrendered to it at this point. Feelings are king. Rigid self control is long gone, if it ever existed to begin with. 

“Just wait for Gottlieb to get back,” Reporterman says.

“If that winds up being the story of my life, I’m going to fucking _shit_ ,” Newt grumbles.

“…I never understand your thought processes,” Reporterman Raleigh sighs. His pen starts skritching again. Newt drinks more water.

“Wait, are you gay for Gottlieb?” Raleigh asks suddenly.

“Yeah,” Newt sighs, closing his eyes. “Maybe. Yeah. But I’m busy. And he’s busy. So shhh about it, okay?”

Raleigh’s _giggling_ , the asshole. “Oh my god. Does he know?”

Newt turns to glare at the guy. “Dude, of _course_ he doesn’t know! What did I just say? We’re busy! I’m not throwing that shit out at a time like this! That’s fuckin _dumb_ and selfish! And, like, hella weird.”

“Weird?”

Newt gives in to the urge to imitate Gottlieb and he rubs the bridge of his nose. “Yes. He’s my superior officer. Military folks don’t exactly appreciate homosexuality. Or, yanno, what I’m rocking. Bisexuality. I’m not throwing that out there when the fate of the world’s on the line.”

“If not now, then—”

Newt raises a hand to shut the guy up. “Abababababa. No. We’re colleagues right now. I’m gonna get him after this is over and sit him down over a pint and we’re gonna have _words_ , don’t you make any mistakes about that, because I will make him my friend if I can’t make him my bride. But all that can wait. Whatever boner I’m hiding for him is way less important than catching these fucking eco-terrorists. Don’t you write a doomed love story when there isn’t one, capiche?”

“Yeah,” Becket says. “You’re more practical than I expected.”

“I’m cynical. There’s a difference.”

“You’re a cynic?”

“About love? Shit yeah. I like monster flicks, not chick flicks.” Newt rests his chin on his hands. “I bet you cuddle down with _27 Dresses_ every Friday night, though, don’t you? Pop in _Friends With Benefits_ and feel a little edgy.”

Becket’s blushing. Newt nailed it. He settles back in his seat the right way around and listens to coms for a moment. He’s dropping into the middle of transmissions but everyone’s yelling, and they’re not just yelling ‘fuck’ over and over. This is soldier code for ‘successful mission.’ Newt focuses on the Aussie accents, figuring one must be Captain Hansen even if one’s Captain Kangaroo. It pays off in the end because British sounds a lot like Aussie and he gets to hear Gottlieb say “By jove, we _got_ the motherfuckers!” which he’s going to treasure in his heart forever.

“They got em,” Newt says.

“What?” Becket says.

“They… We’re done here. Kaiju are neutralized. Not dead, just gonna be hauled back for questioning if Captain Kangaroo can quit his bitching for more than three seconds at a time. Wow.” Newt sits back. “We’ve got prisoners to transport.”

“This is good?” Becket says. Newt remembers all the way back, probably over a day ago at this point, when Reporterman Raleigh busted into their lab and smiled blankly at Newt’s research updates. The dude is a pretty idiot.

“Yes,” Newt says. “Means I get to ask Gottlieb how the hell I can talk to Pentecost. I bet Gottlieb has that man on speed dial.”

The moment perhaps needs something more. Newt raises both his fists in the air, knuckles scraping the roof of the Humvee. “Wooo hooo. Another one bites the dust.”

Espera’s shouting at the other turretmen, coms are crackling excitement. When Newt finally pops the doors to the Humvee, he opens on a party. All the turret gunners are stripping off their uniform blouses while a couple of the men who’ve returned are beat boxing. There are many high-fives and manly hugs being traded amongst the soldiers. Newt stays in the Humvee and watches, his chin on his hands. He didn’t really _do_ anything for this mission. And it looks like he wouldn’t have been called upon to do so, either. This is… Yes, he feels worse now. Gottlieb did his fucking job and Newt sat here and felt depressed. This is stupid as fuck. Newt closes his eyes and breathes deeply. Becket and Espera have vanished and now it’s just him sitting out on festivities.

“What’s up, buddy?” Choi asks.

Newt doesn’t open his eyes. “I just sat here. Sat here and spilled my guts to Gottlieb, then Becket, and now you. Go have fun. Go away.”

Choi wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t cry, little guy.”

“Not joking here, man. Go away.”

Newt feels Choi press a kiss to his ear and _that_ makes his eyes pop open, holy shit. The guy is looking him in the eyes, his expression oddly serious. “You realize you ain’t cut out for this?” Choi asks him.

Newt blinks. “Yeah.”

“Good. We don’t need you here, anyway. We got plenty of meatheads like Captain Kangaroo and plenty of sexy ninja assassins like me. We need nerds. You are so obviously a nerd that it’s been torturing me this whole damn time. Do your science thang away from here, okay? But don’t be a stranger.” Choi boops Newt’s nose. “I like you, Newt. You’re cute. Go fix all our problems while we bat cleanup, got it?” Choi kisses him on the forehead this time and winks. “And call me if you ever reconsider that threesome thing.”

“Yeah,” Newt says. “You’re at the top of my list for threesomes, Choi.”

“All I’ve ever wanted,” Choi purrs, and then he backs away, blowing kisses galore that Newt pretends to catch because it’s impossible to stay depressed around Choi. 

Choi stops suddenly, a grin splitting his face. “And call me Tendo, what the fuck!”

“Tendo?”

Choi—Tendo—runs a hand down his laughing face in exasperated mirth. “It’s my first fucking name, you genius idiot!”

Newt blinks. “People have those?”

Tendo flips him off and vanishes into the growing crowd. A football match is breaking out. Someone—Kaidanovsky—just busted out little bottles of vodka and everyone’s passing around a flask of something from the deep South that might cause blindness. The beat boxers are getting louder. Newt doesn’t know where the prisoners are, if there are any here. Is Captain Kangaroo guarding them? Are they a part of this party? He slips out of the car and inches around the edges of this spontaneous celebration.

And then Newt sees it. It replaces Gottlieb’s “By jove” statement as the best thing ever in the whole world. 

Sergeant Gottlieb has taken his uniform jacket off. He’s still holding one of the weird little bottles of vodka that someone must have given him. It’s probably not his first. He’s got, uh, really good collarbones there. His hair is sticking up oddly because he’s so sweaty and he’s staggering in a circle with his arms held away from him, like he’s an airplane. 

“Christ atop a spinning windmill,” Newt says quietly to himself. He looks around and finds himself standing next to Raleigh. “Uh, hey, reporterman. What the fuck?”

“I asked him what he wanted to be if he wasn’t in K-Division,” the reporterman says, just as perplexed as Newt.

“He wants to be a ballerina?” Newt says. “That was my fuckin dream! Thief!” he yells at Gottlieb. The man ignores him. He’s not smiling. He looks weirdly intent on this controlled stumble he has going here. A few guys are watching and laughing, which makes Newt feel a little nauseous. Everyone else is pretty preoccupied, though. 

Something feels off. Wrong. Newt walks over to his superior officer and catches him by the elbow. “Hey, Sergeant.”

Gottlieb can’t focus on his face, his eyes weaving around Newt’s head. “Yes?”

“You okay?”

Gottlieb smacks his lips. “I should not have had this.” He waves the hand holding the little bottle. “Or the other one.”

“Did you take on the flask, dude?”

Gottlieb shakes his head and then has to grab on to Newt for support. “Woops.”

“Okay, well, at least you won’t go blind. Can you, like, walk with me for a sec? To the Humvee? I think you need to sit down.”

Gottlieb nods like those little toy birds that drink out of a cup, bobbing up and down. He’s really hanging on Newt at this point, which isn’t a good idea because Newt is short and Gottlieb is average height. He manages to wrangle the guy into his seat in the Humvee, though, mainly with Raleigh’s help.

“Go get other quotes, man,” Newt says, waving the reporter off when he tries to stick around. “We’ll still be here later, Iceman’s not going anywhere.”

“Stupid name,” Gottlieb says.

“Yeah,” Newt tells him. “Here, drink water.”

Gottlieb sighs and settles back, then checks his watch and starts fumbling at his chest. He frowns. “Where’s my jacket?”

“I dunno, man,” Newt says. “You were the one to— Oh shit, your meds!”

“Somewhere around here…” Gottlieb murmurs, closing his eyes and leaning into the seat. He starts snoring after only a few moments. Newt heaves himself up to go looking for Gottlieb’s jacket.

He ends up sifting through the piles of uniform blouses that have stacked up around the outskirts of the Humvees’ protected central circle. He lifts each one and shakes it, listening for a rattle. He’s on his third pile when he hits the jackpot and jogs back to the snoring Gottlieb (the guy even snores grumpily, all pretentious throat clearing and then hums and snorts) and shakes him awake.

“Which of these do you take, dude?” Newt asks, holding up two pill bottles. He remembers Ampyra but Gilenya is new to him.

Gottlieb pulls the jacket from Newt’s hands, digs in the pockets, and finally pulls out his glasses. He hooks them on and stares from one bottle to the other. Then he points. “That.”

Newt pops out one Gilenya and says, “Open.” Gottlieb obediently opens his mouth. Newt drops the pill on his tongue and says, “Okay, you need water?”

Gottlieb rolls his eyes and swallows. “I take a lot of pills, Newton. I am used to this. Thank you,” Gottlieb adds around a yawn.

“You gonna be okay?” Newt says. “We have to move out back to base camp soon.”

“I will not vomit if you drive carefully,” Gottlieb says.

“Okay, _good_ , be sure to hold on to that thought. Also, do you have like a direct line to Pentecost? Tendo Choi just gave me his blessing to science it up and that’s really all I need.”

Gottlieb sits up straighter in his seat. “I do.”

“Could you, like, get me that? Or ask him yourself?”

“I will.”

“Cool,” Newt says, and then can’t think of anything more that he needs to say or do. He moves around until he’s sitting in the driver’s seat, the furthest away from the party that’s showing no signs of winding down despite the fact that it’s been probably half an hour to forty-five minutes and they really need to move these prisoners.

“I’ll tell him we’re both coming,” Gottlieb says quietly.

Newt whips around. “What?”

Gottlieb is staring at his fingers, fisted in the cloth of his uniform pants. He’s still jacketless, and Newt can see his discomfort in the high line of his shoulders. “I am a scientist. I need to accept this.”

“Dude, don’t let me tell you what you can and can’t do, or should and shouldn’t do, or maybe need to do or not do. I’m not a Gottlieb expert.”

“Clearly,” Gottlieb says, and his voice is sarcastic and dry and a step closer to sober. Newt appreciates this. Drunk Iceman is disturbingly human. Control is gone. Boundaries are gone. It’s not right.

“I do not do things because someone tells me to, Geiszler,” Gottlieb continues. “I am accepting a fact that I have long been trying to escape. I will have to accept a lot of facts.”

“Hey,” Newt says.

“Hm?”

“You wanna still work together? Like, share a lab?”

“You’re antagonizing personality is strangely helpful, so yes. If they choose to pair us up. I will mention it to Lieutenant Colonel Pentecost. Who’s going to get all these bloody idiots to move out?” He peers around the heaving mass of K-Division, still dancing and drinking in the center of the Humvee circle.

“You, sir?” Newt offers.

Gottlieb looks at him suddenly and he _grins_. It’s fucking _huge_ and twisted and he says, “I am going to miss those moments when you have to refer to me as a superior officer, Gesizler,” and Newt’s left behind, shellshocked, as Gottlieb drags himself up, leans on the Humvee, and roars, “Bravo company! The fuck?! We have prisoners to transport! Move out in five! Shut this down until the war is won, gentlemen!”

*

Gottlieb is breaking in his new chalkboards and Newt’s trying to figure out where he can store all of the manga he’s been buying now that they’re settled in Tokyo when Newt suddenly remembers. He glances over at Gottlieb, who isn’t in uniform anymore. He’s wearing some stodgy professor clothes which are just as poorly-fitting, though, so it’s not much of an adjustment.

“Hey, Iceman!” Newt calls.

“When are you going to stop that?” Gottlieb snaps. “I have a name and title and I would prefer if you use them, particularly in an academic setting.”

“I never learned your first name, dude.”

Gottlieb spins to face him, cane tapping down hard. “Are you joking?”

“Naw. Tendo never told me.”

“…I see. Doctor Gottlieb will be—”

“So I looked it up the other day,” Newt continues, smirking. “Hermann’s not a very sexy name, I can see why you’d prefer Hermie.”

Gottlieb looks like he’s going to pop a blood vessel. “That is not—”

“When you wanna get that drink?”

Gottlieb is stuck glaring at him for a long moment. “When this war against the Kaiju has been won,” he says finally. He turns back to his boards and adds, “And not a second sooner.”

“Rightio,” Newt says, because now he has _incentive_. He bites at the smile that won’t leave his mouth and hums a note.

“Don’t you dare,” Gottlieb, or rather _Hermann_ , snarls.

“Don’t stop me now,” Newt sings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newt probably sobbed like a bitch in _The Curious Case of Benjamin Button_ so he really shouldn’t be talking shit about romcoms. I’m projecting, it was me who sobbed.
> 
> …Burn Gorman can beat box. Just. Putting that out there as a fact that confuses me and is tangentially mentioned in this chapter.
> 
> Hermann running around like a plane while shirtless is stolen from _Generation Kill_ , when Colbert does a very similar thing. Hermann had to be mega fucking drunk, though, because he has Boundaries. Newt takes Person’s offscreen line about wanting to be a ballerina.
> 
> If you don’t get Newt’s reference to Queen’s classic, “Another One Bites the Dust,” I’m sorry. He does outright sing “Don’t Stop Me Now” at the end because ending with Queen is the best. Well, almost ending. One last chapter.


	16. Chapter 16

Newton pushes his hair back, smooths the sides down, tries to fluff up the front, feels the back, tries to smooth the front down and fluff it up at the same time, and it’s at this point that Hermann stabs him in the ribs with his cane and hisses, “What the hell are you doing to your hair?”

“Just feeling it,” Newton says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. His eyes shift down and away, guilty.

“Well, stop it,” Hermann tells him, and goes back to waiting. The two of them would most likely be seated quicker if they went to the bar itself, but Newton had turned faintly pink when he looked at the bar (perhaps because he is rather short and the stools are tall), and Hermann doesn’t really want to try and negotiate them at the moment. Particularly if he decides to have a drink. It isn’t a good idea with his medication, but he hasn’t had a drink in over a year (since K-Division, their first successful Kaiju counterattack and the first tangible proof that his predicative model was sound), so he is feeling somewhat pissed off at his own disease. Newton’s also wearing a ratty band shirt with holes in the sleeves and hem and collar and has crammed himself into a pair of jeans that are improbably tight. Seeing him out of uniform, in those dreadful skinny ties and skinny jeans that he’d worn when they worked in K-Science together, was already odd. In a costume this… grungy, though, it is even more bizarre and informal. It suits him, of course. It suits their situation. Thankfully, it does not suit this bar, which is old wood and dim lighting and a few tasteful posters, nothing extravagant or debauched. Newton is, in fact, less suited to this bar than Hermann, which is an odd change of pace.

Newton’s change in uniform is also revealing. “You have a new tattoo,” Hermann says.

Newton glances up, fingers rising and then dropping back to his side before he touches the skin. “Uh, yeah. Pretty recently.”

“A _neck_ tattoo,” Hermann says. It’s red and angry-looking around the edges, an outlined curl that reaches all the way up behind Newton’s ear.

“Y-yeah?”

“What is it? Some sort of, of tree?”

Newton looks around like he’s searching for an escape. “It’s uh. It’s gonna be part of a larger thing. Chest piece. Of dragons. Like, Oriental ones.”

Hermann pinches the bridge of his nose. “Chinese? Japanese? Mongolian? Indian?”

“There are Indian and Mongolian dragons?”

“I have no idea, but that wasn’t the point. Your terminology is outdated. Such a word is simplistic. Were First Lieuten— Were Miss Mori here, she would have _words_ with you and she is not nearly so polite as I, Doctor Geiszler. I mean, Newton.”

Newton’s suddenly hiding a smile. He can’t seem to meet Hermann’s eyes for any reason. He’s _blushing_ , that’s an inescapable fact. This is absolutely surreal.

“Sorry for the wait. This way,” the hostess says to the two of them. She’s Newton’s height in her wedge heels and she looks like she’s nearly fifty. Her eyes rake over the two of them and narrow on Newton. “You old enough to be in this section, champ?”

Newton is bright red as he fishes out his license. His smile is gone. Hermann’s however, is pressing at the corners of his mouth. He covers his amusement with his fingertips and follows Newton silently to their booth.

“I’m twenty-two now,” Newton grumbles once they’re seated. “My birthday was a week ago.”

“Happy birthday,” Hermann tells him. “Welcome to adulthood, though we’ll still require photo identification.”

“Yeah. Whoop-dee-doo.”

“Why this particular bar, Newton?” Hermann asks, and Newt’s mouth twitches again. Is Hermann saying something incorrectly? Is his accent suddenly amusing? Is it funny that, even after working together for over a year, he refuses to use the man's ridiculous nickname?

“Uh, it’s got good imported stuff,” Newton says. “German beers.”

Hermann sits up straighter. “Ah. This _will_ be good, then.”

“And they have five-dollar all-you-can-eat chili fries,” Newt continues.

“Oh. Oh dear.”

“Hey, fuck you!” Newton is laughing at him now. This is much more normal.

“What do you recommend, apart from the fries?” Gottlieb asks.

“Uhhh how hungry are you, man? Did you eat at the airport?”

“It was a military vessel, Newton. They do not cater.”

“You took a military plane all the way out here to _Indiana_ to eat chili cheese fries with me?”

Hermann glares. “I most certainly did _not_.”

Newton’s face falls.

“I took a _military helicopter_ and then one of those ridiculous black cars with various flags hanging out the windows to _drink_ with you in Indiana. The fries were not a part of my decision.”

Newton’s face lights up.

“And I am, in fact, starving,” Hermann admits. “Do you think they have a sandwich of some kind? Perhaps one without meat?”

“Oh, you’re vegetarian?”

“Ah, no. I keep kosher when I have the luxury of choosing my own foods. Meat is…rarely prepared correctly.”

Newt’s mouth drops open. “That is so cool.”

“It’s really not.”

“I don’t even know all the rules and shit, man!”

“Kashrut?”

“Yeah, that! Wow, you are a way better Jew than I am. I eat bacon all the fuckin time. And, like, shrimp and shit.”

“It’s the way my siblings and I were raised,” Hermann says. “I find it comforting.”

Newton’s expression is truly astounding. It’s as if the man is seeing something profoundly beautiful. He glows with a kind of inner light. “You’re telling me personal shit.”

Hermann rests his face in his hands and, from the safe enclosure of his fingers, he decides to cut to the chase. “Dear god, man. What are we doing here?”

*

Newt’s immediately on guard. “Uh. Whaddaya mean?”

Hermann pulls both hands away to glare at him. “What are your intentions with this meeting? I would like to know at this juncture, since the fact that I am telling you personal ‘shit,’ as you say, seems to be some sort of code I don’t understand. So. What do you want?”

“I kinda told you like fifty times already, dude. In the field, in the lab, like all the time.”

Hermann stares at him, but more like the dude’s thinking and less like he’s trying to figure out how he can hide the body when he’s done slaughtering Newt. Newt sees the exact moment he gets it. It’s his favorite thing, when Hermann puts all the pieces together. They’re usually mathematical pieces that Newt’s ignoring, but the look is the same. Rapid eye-blinks and then his eyes narrow. “…You still want to be best friends?”

“Bare minimum,” Newt says. He spreads his palms on the table like he’s just dealt a winning hand at poker. “And if you’re cool with that, can I just say you look super nice tonight.”

Hermann stiffens. 

Okay, Newt has been cataloguing Hermann’s current outfit for the past half-hour as they stood there at the door because _what the hell_. This guy can’t dress for _shit_. He always looks like a fucking professor stereotype straight out of a Rick Moranis movie and today he’s still in highwaters and a fugly suit jacket and what’s probably a sweater vest if Newt could just check the status of the sleeves. His haircut is even worse than the crap they put recruits through in K-Division. His shoes look like his great-grandfather handed them down. Newt’s seen him in uniforms that looked just as bad, he spent a year with him in the same kind of getup he’s rocking right now when they worked together in K-Science, so why the fuck does this shitty outfit frustrate Newt so much? He just wants to see the guy naked at this point. Like, there’s no other cure for it. He’s gotta see some naked Hermann because no one could look this bad unless they were hiding something prime underneath. Dress for emphasis, right? Play up your good points. Make yourself look good. _Unless_ , Newt postulates, you already look so fucking good that you can afford not to give a shit. 

Besides, it’s clear this guy’s desperate to be taken seriously. He’s been trying to appear old as balls since Newt met him. He’s succeeding, too. There’s a reason Newt got carded and this asshole didn’t, even though they’re just a year apart. The guy’s playing a distraction game. Hide all the sexy, give them old-man-professor to totally trust. Genius.

“Is this. A date,” Hermann says.

“Yep,” Newt says.

Hermann’s brow wrinkles and for once, it’s not in anger. Dude just looks bewildered. “I see.”

“Yep,” Newt says.

“…All right.”

“We good?”

“We… I understand more now, yes.”

“You been on a date before?”

Hermann coughs delicately. “No.”

“Me neither,” Newt says. “Not with a dude, anyway. Girls are different.”

“…Why?”

“They smile more. Maybe that’s just you, though. You’re a grump.”

“I… Yes, I suppose I am.”

“It’s cool,” Newt says quickly. “I dig it. I like a challenge.”

Hermann’s eyebrows click together. “Do you.”

“Not like, I’m gonna try and get you in bed right now!” Newt says quickly. “That’d be rude. And uncool. But, yanno, I think you’re smart and you’re kinda mean to me without being really mean to me, if that makes sense. And I appreciate that.”

“Can we talk about something else?”

Newt cocks his head to the side. “You not comfy with this topic?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I had not entertained notions of dating. Ever.”

“Oh.” Newt frowns. “You ace?”

“What?”

“Asexual?”

“I— I never really thought about it before.”

Newt tries to suppress a smile. “You entertaining notions now?”

Hermann’s mouth is pinched and he’s blushing, all red and ugly and nervous. “This is inappropriate.”

Newt has to laugh at that. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, but we aren’t in the PPDC anymore! We’re not K-Division or K-Sci or anything involving K. I’ll stop if you want but this isn’t workplace harassment. There’s no more line down the middle of our lab, so you can friggin _tell_ me, man! Tell me I’m the hottest shit ever, all right? I just said you were, now you gotta reciprocate.”

“I do not.”

“Yeah, ya do.”

Hermann struggles out of the booth, plants his cane, and says, “I’m buying. What do you want?”

*

Hermann takes a long moment with the drinks menu (if he’s only having one beer, he is damn well going to enjoy it). He selects Weihenstephaner and chooses the chili fries for Newton. They _do_ have vegetarian stews, so he orders one of those for himself. He also manages to stop blushing like a fool. 

Newton is a complication in Hermann’s life. The man barged in and uprooted him and his career trajectory, after all. He convinced Hermann to leave the military and join the science division. And what’s even worse, the man was _absolutely right_. It only took the two of them a year to figure out how to neutralize Kaiju Blue (with adjustments for regional factors that Newton could list off in five languages and which Hermann learned to tune out). They also discovered how to predict the locations of Blue attacks, thanks to Newton’s factor list and Hermann’s extensive algorithm. They had the Kaiju organization on the ropes when Raleigh Becket, of all people, delivered the final blow. Co-written with Mako Mori, he published his article on K-Division and earned the PPDC some sorely needed publicity and popularity. Bravo company did not come off as perfect, of course (Newton had talked to the reporter at length, it seemed, though many of his statements were censored for language and content), but they were human in a way few civilians had realized. 

Becket and Mori brought down the Kaiju, in the end. Such a faceless enemy that had caused such senseless damage to the world could not stand against the sudden shine of K-Division. Tips poured in around the world. Kaiju lost their anonymity.

The bartender puts their pints on the bar. “I’ll bring out your food in a minute.” She winks at Hermann and adds, “Your boyfriend’s kinda loud, but I can see why you like him.”

“You make a lot of assumptions in that statement,” Hermann tells her, and then stares at the pints. He has two pints, two hands, and one cane. 

“I got it,” Newton says by his elbow. Hermann doesn’t yelp and jerk away, but it’s a near thing. Newton grabs both glasses and walks back to their booth with his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. Hermann follows, trying not to feel guilty about the fact that he is unable to help carry their drinks. He made his choice quite a while ago; go until he can’t anymore, and then get out of the way. He’d stopped deteriorating so rapidly once he left K-Division, but he knows he will never return to what he once thought of as 'normal.' A cane was practical in the lab. Newton never said anything about it.

Newton looks him dead in the eye when they sit back down. His serious face is comical. It sits poorly on him. He looks too still, and Hermann knows that the man is truly nervous in this moment. All the jerky motions that are a part of his daily movements are not as concerning as Newton, still, looking at Hermann and preparing to speak.

“Okay, I got a list of reasons why we should be best friends and a list of reasons why we should be boyfriends forever,” Newton says. “Which one you wanna hear first?”

“Neither,” Hermann says.

Newton deflates. “What? Why not?”

“I am… I think that…” Hermann clears his throat. “I am amenable to exploring a non-platonic situation without hearing your reasons.”

Newton blinks at him, but his expression does not change. Hermann was rather hoping for one of the man’s smug grins. He did propose this, after all.

“Hello?” Hermann says, because what else can he say?

“Can I hear your reasons?” Newton asks.

Hermann feels his eyes bug out for a moment. “No.”

“Please?”

Newton rarely pleads for anything. He usually just starts whining or groaning until Hermann gives in. Hermann thinks for a moment, sips his beer, hums. It’s really rather good. It’s worth what it’s doing to his liver at the moment.

“Please?” Newton asks again.

“I like that you’re frank,” Hermann says without looking up from his beer. “So few people are straightforward, particularly when it comes to me and… everything that I am. I also hate that you’re frank, of course, because I rarely know how to respond to your statements, but it is refreshing. You have made me laugh on at least three occasions, which is unheard of. You continue to sing songs, including German ones, and while it’s _very annoying_ , it’s also cheering when I am not in a poor mood. You treat me slightly better than the way you treat other people, but also do not hover. You are easy to talk to and I like your boots. They are practical for the work you do.” Hermann looks up.

Newton is beaming. It’s exactly the expression Hermann was hoping to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, so I took some point-of-view liberties. Thanks for sticking with it! Dang, it went on longer than I thought it would.
> 
> Don’t drink if you’re on Ampyra, that’s all I can say. It causes liver damage. One beer probably won’t hurt, but that’s one beer a year, probably. God, it would suck to be Hermann and be forced into social drinking situations.
> 
> Weihenstephaner is a real German beer. It's one of those brewed in a monastery which sounds pretty good. I don't like beer so my beer knowledge is as spotty as my knowledge of science. Speaking of which, I’m so sorry for my bullshit science throughout this fic. It was like everything else had to be accurate as I could make it, but not the science. That was just a mess. I’m so sorry.
> 
> I won’t apologize for ending it like this because I warned you there wouldn’t be sex. Assume that when it happens, it’s awkward and mostly elbows and yelling but they can snicker about it together later.

**Author's Note:**

> This is officially the longest fic I've ever written, and also the only fic I've never had beta'd because none of my friends feel the way I do about the nerds of Pacific Rim (mainly, that they should just get married already) and no one likes war movies the way I do. Any mistakes and asshole remarks are mine, except where they're quotes from the miniseries or something I stole from real life conversations. Don't take Newt as a role model in conversational topics.


End file.
